He thought surely he had reached the worst. But Fate is inexhaustibly ingenious. He was to have his bellyful of Harbottling.
Among his letters on the morning after the party he found one, the envelope of which bore in print the name of Langley Brown, Literary and Dramatic Agent, 9 Coventry Street, W. This letter informed him that Mr. Henry Butcher, of the Pall Mall Theater, proposed to immediately produce—(the split infinitive is Mr. Langley Brown’s)—a play called “Lossie Loses,” by Carlton Timmis, the rights of which Mr. Brown believe to be in Mr. Beenham’s hands. And would Mr. Beenham call on Mr. Brown, or, if not, write to give his consent, when the contract would be drawn up and the play produced.
He had almost forgotten Carlton Timmis. The letter had been forwarded through his banker. He stared at it, turned it over and over, read it again. It seemed to be an authentic document. He handed it to Matilda. She said with awe:
“Mr. Butcher!”
And, with unconscious imitation of the humor of the English Bench, Old Mole asked:
“Who is Mr. Butcher?”
This was shocking ignorance. For twenty years and more Mr. Henry Butcher’s name had been in the newspapers, on the hoardings, and his portrait, his wife’s portrait, his baby’s portrait, his dog’s portrait, his horse’s portrait had appeared in the magazines, and his commendation of a certain brand of cigarette had for the last ten years been used by the makers as an advertisement. For all that, his name and personality had not penetrated Old Mole’s consciousness.
“Did you buy the play?” asked Matilda.
“I lent him fifty pounds, and he left it with me. I had no very clear idea as to his intention.”
“Is it a good play?”