“But I’m not an actor.”
“Of course not—she ought to have seen you haven’t the face—only the razor: ha, ha, ha!”
Will was vaguely resentful. “But I dare say I could black my face.”
“There’s more to the drama than Othello, and more to Othello than burnt cork.” And Mr. Flippance laughed again as he dropped into his wooden arm-chair and resumed his breakfast at a little table ’twixt the bed-canopy and the window. “Sit down, won’t you? Excuse my back—I can hear all you say behind it. Ha, ha! That’s another good gag, eh?”
Will, glancing round, saw that the chair not occupied by his host was hopelessly littered by his garments, mixed with papers: he therefore dropped on the high four-poster—it was now made—and cleared his throat for action.
“You’ll have a drop of something,” Mr. Flippance threw backwards, mistranslating the sounds.
“No, thank you!” He must not be bribed or drugged, Will felt: he had stern work before him. It was as well, however, to placate the adversary. “Glad to hear the show’s a big draw,” he said.
“And who told you that?”
“Er—the Bradmarsh Carrier!”
“Bless her—she carries all the lies I tell her.”