When business was good—and Staithley was a good “No. 2” town—Mr. Alastair Montagu was capable of believing what his posters asked the public to believe about the merits of his company, but in his most optimistic, his most characteristically showman-like mood, he could not persuade himself that Lexley Chown had come from London to Staithley looking for stars of the future amongst the sprightly old women and elderly young men of “The Woman Who Paid” company. There was old Tom Hall, of course, a sound actor who ought to be in London, but Chown knew all about Tom, and about Tom’s trouble, too. Whisky drinkers on Tom’s scale weren’t Chown’s quarry, nor, indeed, he reflected, were sound actors either. To be a “sound actor” is to be damned with faint praise and a mediocre salary. No: Chown must be after something at the music-hall, and Montagu had “popped in” the other evening without seeing anything extraordinary. But that was just it, with Chown. There was nothing extraordinary about the people he discovered until after he discovered them; then every one saw how extraordinary they were.
Chown, shaking Montagu’s hand and bending over it with an inclination of the body which seemed derived from Paris rather than London, was merely Chown not differentiating between this unimportant touring manager and the great ones of the earth who paid high salaries to established reputations. But Mr. Montagu was flattered, he had a fine capacity for flattery.
“My dear Montagu, I’m delighted,” said Mr. Chown. “You will honor me by dining with me? They have a Chablis here that really is not unworthy of your acceptance.”
It was flattering to be thought a connoisseur of wine, and Chown had skillfully mentioned a wine that couldn’t go beyond Montagu’s savoir vivre, instead of the more esoteric drinks of his own preferring. Yet Mr. Chown, taking trouble to secure a guest, wanted nothing of Montagu but his company. The theater is at once convivial and self-insulating. Chown hated solitude, and though there were hail-fellow-well-met commercial travelers in the hotel whose conversation would have been a tonic, he preferred the limited Mr. Montagu. Erroneously, Mr. Chown despised commercial travelers.
Mr. Montagu, in gratitude, decided to give Mr. Chown a hint. Mr. Chown was in evening dress.
“I am glad to hear,” said Mr. Chown, who had heard nothing at all, “that you are having excellent houses.”
The houses were no better than Montagu’s inexpensive company deserved. “I am not,” he confessed, “doing musical comedy business. Still, they have a feeling for the legitimate here. Staithley’s a good town, if,” he added, trying to give his kindly hint, “it isn’t dressy.”
“No. I suppose one mustn’t judge these people by their clothes. They don’t put their money on their backs in the North. They’ve more left to spend on the theater, Montagu.”
“And the music-hall.”
“Ah! You feel the competition?”