“Hallo!”
“Wake me up when the play begins.”
This was followed by an ostentatious sound as of snoring. Then the voice of the second speaker was heard—
“Sammy!”
His friend appeared to awake.
“Eh? Yes? What’s up? Has anything happened?”
“Wake you up at half-past eleven in any event, I suppose?”
“Thanks, do, sonny.” And the critic slept again.
Yes, we took an interest in our plays then. I wonder shall I ever enjoy the British Drama again as I enjoyed it in those days? Shall I ever enjoy a supper again as I enjoyed the tripe and onions washed down with bitter beer at the bar of the old Albion? I have tried many suppers after the theatre since then, and some, when friends have been in generous mood, have been expensive and elaborate. The cook may have come from Paris, his portrait may be in the illustrated papers, his salary may be reckoned by hundreds; but there is something wrong with his art, for all that, I miss a flavour in his meats. There is a sauce lacking.
Nature has her coinage, and demands payment in her own currency. At Nature’s shop it is you yourself must pay. Your unearned increment, your inherited fortune, your luck, are not legal tenders across her counter.