‘This play of mine, as you have thought proper to term it, Mr. Harris,’ he replied with dignity, ‘is Shakespeare’s play.’
‘So you say, and, indeed, so many other people say, or I should not be here,’ was the cool rejoinder. ‘Between ourselves, Mr. Erin, and, speaking as one man of the world to another, I don’t care a farthing—certainly not a Queen Anne’s farthing—whether it is Shakespeare’s play or not. The question that concerns me is, “Do the public believe it to be such?”’
‘Am I to understand, then, that you do not wish to examine the MS.?’
‘Examine it? Certainly not. My time is very much occupied—it is in five acts, is it not?’
‘It is in five acts,’ assented the antiquary; he could hardly trust himself to reply, except in the other’s words. Mr. Harris’s indifference, notwithstanding that it promised to facilitate matters, was most offensive to him. ‘Mr. Pye has been so good as to promise us a prologue for the play.’
‘That’s good; “Prologue by the Poet Laureate“ will look well in the bill. We must have an epilogue ready, even though’—here he smiled grimly—’we never get so far as that.’
The suggestion of such a contingency—which, of course, meant total failure—in cold blood, filled up the cup of the antiquary’s indignation. He almost resolved, whatever this man offered, to decline his proposition to bring out the play.
‘Mr. Merry will write the epilogue,’ he replied icily.
‘A very good man—for an epilogue,’ replied the manager drily. ‘Well, we must strike while the iron’s hot, or not at all. We must not give the public time to flag in its enthusiasm, or, what will be worse, perhaps, to alter its opinion. There is risk of this even now, but I am ready to run it, and I’ll take the play.’
‘The devil you will!’ said Mr. Erin.