“Oh, I see; you mean, sir, that you are the actor of the part of a gentleman. Faith, sir, the part might have been better cast.”
“I hope that I am a gentleman first, and an actor afterwards, madam,” said Mr. Bates, with some measure of dignity.
“In that case, I presume you were appearing in the former rôle before you arrived at the inn,” said Kitty, whose sarcasm was at no time deficient in breadth.
Even Mr. Bates was beginning to appreciate her last sally, when she added, “I do not remember having seen your name in a bill of any of the London playhouses, Mr. Bates.”
“I have never appeared in London, madam,” said Mr. Bates, “and, so far as I can gather, I have not lost much by remaining in the country.”
“Nay, but think what the playgoers of London have lost, Mr. Bates,” said Kitty solemnly.
“I do think of it,” cried the man. “Yes, I swear to you that I do. When I hear of the upstarts now in vogue I feel tempted sometimes to put my pride in my pocket and appear in London.”
“Before starting in London, a person needs to have his pockets full of something besides pride,” said Kitty. “There are other ways of making a fortune besides appearing on the London stage. Why should men come to London to act when they may become highwaymen in the country—ay, or inn-keepers—another branch of the same profession?”
“It is clear, madam, that you have no high opinion of the stage. To let you into a secret—neither have I.” Mr. Bates' voice sank to a whisper, and he gave a confidential wink or two while making this confession.
Kitty was now truly surprised. Most actors of the stamp of Mr. Bates, whom she had met, had a profound belief in the art of acting, and particularly in themselves as exponents of that art.