“By all the gods!” he cried, rising with outstretched hands. “What brings you to town, my son?”
“There is but one God,” said Brandon, allowing himself to be pressed into the chair nearest the fire. “And John Smith is his prophet. In a word, he has brought me to town.”
Pomfret laughed, but the shrewd eyes twinkled with a heightened curiosity. “That is to say, your mysterious genius consents to the cuts?’
“On the contrary.” And Brandon produced the letter.
While Pomfret read he watched his face narrowly. One thing was clear: since the great man’s visit to Hart’s Ghyll a good deal of water had flowed under the bridge. At any rate disappointment, vexation, perplexity, were now freely displayed in that expressive countenance.
“What a rum letter!” was the first comment. “Is the chap cracked or is he trying to pull your leg?”
“‘Nothing is but thinking makes it so.’” Brandon’s gravity was almost stern. “This is no common man, and one day, I hope, a topsy-turvy planet will know it.”
“I can only say it’s a great pity he won’t consent to the cuts.” The rejoinder was measured, deliberate, businesslike. “A very great pity. Morrison’s read it, and he says if it is handled in the right way it might be a property. As it is of course the public won’t look at it.”
“They won’t be allowed to look at it if the Censor’s ukase means anything.”
“That can be got over. And as I say, the cuts will be all for the good of the play.”