“We will not discuss the feminine point of view of this event, my lord; their coyness and pudicity are of course a credit to their sex, and we can but honour them for carrying so high the ideal of womanhood; but that must wear off in time, as the fair sex finds out that the world cannot wait for them, and that the rotation of our planet cannot come to a standstill because the modesty of our wives and sisters is in jeopardy.”
The little mimic lifted his sharply-cut features and looked into the long, aristocratic face of his listener.
“I am all ears, Mr Danford; but about modesty I have nothing to say. Mayfair is not the nursery for such delicate plants; besides, I think that coyness is already on the wane, for I see several groups of women lounging about. Do not trouble your clever head about that, and tell me in what way I can be of any use to you?”
“The point is this, my lord, as you know, no one is able to recognise anyone. No high-collared cloak nor slouch hat and mask could be a better disguise than this general unmasking. You know the adage: ‘Tell the truth, and no one will believe you.’ We can add another truism: ‘Show yourself as you are, and no one will know you.’ No doubt, there is still a little mannerism that clings to the individual, by which one could recognise their identity; but it would require a strenuous effort of the mind, and a wonderful memory of personal tricks, to be able to arrive at knowing who’s who. So I have bethought myself of a plan. We artists of the Music Hall alone possess the art of observation. You see, we have made a special study of the physiognomy, and have stored our brains with all the particularities of Society leaders, the oddities of the clergy, of City magnates and gutter marionettes. Some remedy must be found at once for this present state of affairs, or else the whole edifice of Society will disappear, and we artists will perish in the downfall. The remedy cannot come from the Upper Ten, I am afraid, for they have no memory nor any observing powers. I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am speaking very openly on the subject, and you must excuse me if I feel the position very keenly.”
“Go on, my dear Danford; what you say is very true and very interesting. I am beginning to see what you mean. By the way, I think I see the Duke of Southdown on that chair—shall we walk up to him? You might tell him of your plan.”
“Do nothing of the kind!” hurriedly said the mimic, laying a firm hand on Lord Somerville’s arm. “The man you take for His Grace is a driver of the London General Omnibus Company. Now, my lord, you see what mistakes you are likely to make.”
“By God, I could have sworn this was the Duke! But, Danford, do you never commit such solecisms?”
“No, very rarely.” Danford shook his head knowingly, and over his thin lips flitted that indefinable smile for which he was so renowned on the boards. “But there you are, you have not made a special study of human physiognomy, and have not through hard plodding acquired that sense of observation, that keenness of perception, that we have, for you have had no need to retain the facial grimaces and queer movements of individuals. To-day the Music Halls are closed and we are broke, but in this wreckage, we artists have saved our precious faculty of memorising. The profession has therefore decided to make a new move; this morning I saw the manager of the Tivoli, who asked me to be the intermediary between the profession and the aristocracy—of which, my lord, you are one of the strongest columns. This state of things looks as if it were going to last, and as we cannot prevent it we must boom it.”
“I follow you, Danford, and am curious to know what you will propose as a remedy.”
“Well, my lord, I advise that we artists, men and women, should open in every district of London Schools of Observation, in which the art of memorisation will be taught, and prizes will be given to pupils who recognise the most faces in one hour. I myself believe that Society will not easily learn that art; for it has so long relied on outward signs to guide it in the recognition of folks, that its faculties are warped, and it will take us all our time to pull Society through this difficulty. Then a special branch should be started at once, or else the aristocracy will sink into the deep waves of oblivion. We must all—I mean the Music Hall variety artists—accept engagements for dinner-parties, receptions, afternoon teas; in fact, for every entertainment where more than two are gathered, and act as social guides. To give you a sample of what I can do, my lord, I propose to take a stroll with you along the favourite thoroughfares of town; not at present, for London will turn in for luncheon very soon, but between six and seven o’clock we can meet again.”