The tenor was quite fatherly.
“It is what I have been telling Hodgson for years,” he said, “give them a simple human story.”
Crossing the stage, I ran against Marmaduke Trevor.
“You will stay for my scene,” he urged.
“Another night,” I answered. “I have only just returned.”
He sank his voice to a whisper. “I want to talk to you on business, when you have the time. I am thinking of taking a theatre myself—not just now, but later on. Of course, I don't want it to get about.”
I assured him of my secrecy.
“If it comes off, I want you to write for me. You understand the public. We will talk it over.”
He passed onward with stealthy tread.
I found Hodgson in the front of the house.