Presently there were mutual introductions across the fronded celery and the self-lubricating ripe olive. This accomplished, Mr. Pilkins was upon the point of stating that he was in the accounting line, when their new acquaintance, evidently holding such a detail to be of no great consequence, broke in upon him with a politely murmured “Excuse me” and proceeded to speak of a vastly more interesting subject. His name, as they already knew, was [178] Mr. Royal Harcourt. He was of the theatrical profession, a thing they already had guessed. He told them more—much more.
It would seem that for long he had withstood the blandishments and importunities of the moving-picture producers, standing, as it were, aloof from them and all their kind, holding ever that the true artist should remain ever the true artist, no matter how great the financial temptation to enter the domain of the silent play might be. But since so many of equal importance in the profession had gone into the pictures—and besides, after all was said and done, did not the pictures cater educationally to a great number of doubtlessly worthy persons whose opportunity for acquaintance with the best work of the legitimate stage was necessarily limited and curtailed?—well, any way, to make a long story no longer, he, Mr. Royal Harcourt, had gone into the pictures himself, and here he was. Taking it that he had been appealed to, Mr. Pilkins nodded in affirmation of the wisdom of the step, and started to speak. “Excuse me, please,” said Mr. Harcourt courteously but firmly. Plainly Mr. Harcourt was not yet done. He resumed. One who had a following might always return to the legitimate finding that following unimpaired. Meanwhile, the picture business provided reasonably pleasant employment at a most attractive remuneration.
“So, as I said just now,” went on Mr. Harcourt, “here I am and here you find me. I [179] may tell you that I am specially engaged for the filming of that popular play, The Prince of the Desert, which the Ziegler Company is now making here at its studios. My honorarium—this, of course, is in confidence—my honorarium for this is eight hundred dollars a week.” He glanced at their faces. “In fact, strictly between ourselves, nine hundred and fifty.” And with a polished finger nail Mr. Harcourt flicked an imaginary bit of fluff from a fluffless coat lapel.
Awe descended upon the respective souls of his listeners, and there lingered.
“And of course for that—that figure—you play the leading part?” Mrs. Pilkins put the question almost reverently.
A trace, just a trace, of unconscious bitterness trickled into their tablemate’s voice as he answered:
“No, madam, I could hardly go so far as to say that—hardly so far as to say that exactly. My good friend, Mr. Basil Derby, has the title rôle. He originated the part on Broadway—perhaps that explains it. I play the American newspaper correspondent—a strong part, yet with touches of pure comedy interspersed in it here and there—a part second only to that of the star.”
“Does he—this Mr. Derby—does he get anything like what you are paid?” ventured Mr. Pilkins. Surely the Ziegler Company tempted bankruptcy.
[180]
“I suspect so, sir, I suspect so.”
Mr. Harcourt’s tone indicated subtly that this world was as yet by no means free from injustice.