“Well, I think I can. . . . And I wish you’d believe in it.”
“I do, Edwin. Only naturally I’m anxious. You’re a child. Where is this . . . this performance held?”
“At the Queen’s Theatre this year.”
“Well, I suppose that is better than a music hall.”
His father’s prejudice against the music halls, or, as they were then beginning to be called, Theatres of Varieties, was an old story. Edwin could hardly resist the temptation of telling him that the performers in the pantomime were nearly all music-hall artistes, but Mr. Ingleby saved him, by asking him where he intended to sleep.
“Oh, I expect W.G. will give me a shake-down in his digs.”
“I suppose,” said Mr. Ingleby, with a shade of anxiety, “that Brown is also on the committee—”.
The idea of the honest W.G. as a member of this constellation of bloods tickled Edwin. He now wished to goodness he’d never told his father of W.G.’s family differences and of his lucky double on the Lincoln and National.
“Oh, no, old W.G.’s far too sober for this sort of thing.”
It was an unfortunate word.