“She can sing it, but she can’t act it—yet. If she’s out for marriage, get her married. Marry her yourself. Do something. But a woman who shirks life will never play Sans-Gêne.” Rossiter rose to administer a friendly pat to Chown’s shoulder. “Think it over, old man,” he said earnestly. “Meantime,” he conceded graciously, “I’ll give Teresa to Leslie and Mary can flap once more. But, I warn you, it’s the last time. I’m tired of real demureness. I want real acting.”
Chown hesitated slightly, then “Do you know, I’ve a card up my sleeve about Mary,” he said.
“Then, for God’s sake, play it, my lad. Play it. It’s overdue.”
“What about giving her a character part?”
“Character? That’s not her line. You know as well as I do that we can’t monkey with the public’s expectations. An actress can afford anything except versatility.”
“Listen,” said Chown. “I picked her up in Lancashire and her accent’s amazing. I needn’t remind you that Lancashire is almost as popular on the stage as Ireland. As you said, the theater’s a place of illusion.”
“Did you notice,” asked Rossiter witheringly, “that the scene of this piece is laid in Granada?”
“Does that matter?” asked Chown blandly.
Rossiter was turning over the pages of the script. “Not a bit,” he hardily admitted. “I’ll take the chance, Lexley. We’ll make her Lancashire, and there’s a male part that’ll have to go to Lancashire too. What a pity that chap Butler was killed in the war. He’d have been just the man to write it in.”
“I don’t think he was Lancashire,” said Chown and, in his turn, “Does that matter?” asked Rossiter. “You go and have that talk with Mary and leave me to look after authors. It takes doing nowadays. Surprising what they’ll ask for doing a bit of re-writing. Makes a hole in a ten-pound note if you don’t watch it.”