"Yes, yes, Dad—a personage; of course you are!"
"Good! So far so good. Well, what follows?" He took three slow whiffs of the pipe again. "The new manager wants to ingratiate himself with the Beckenhampton public. He says to himself, 'I could hardly do a cleverer stroke of business than open my campaign with the work of one of the oldest and most respected of the residents.' It's as good for him to get the opera as for me to give it to him. Our interests are identical; we—so to speak—we link arms!"
They caught a little of his confidence, and affected more.
"But won't the touring companies stand in the way?" they asked.
"Tschut! Let him give it a production, that's all I want—a fortnight, a week, even a night will be enough to make it known. Once it is heard, there will be offers from London. It will get about how the audience received it; the managers will see the criticisms—I shall post them to all the principal theatres myself. I think, I really do think, that the poor opera has got its chance at last!"
He mixed some whisky and water, and dilated on the subject till his daughters' bedtime. At eleven o'clock they kissed him and went upstairs. In their hearts they felt a little ashamed, because they had pretended to more enthusiasm than the great tidings aroused. The Professor hummed snatches of the overture, and lay back, seeing visions in the fire.
"Do you think it's really of any consequence that the theatre is changing hands?" inquired Hilda on the landing.
"Oh, I don't know," said Bee drearily. "Poor father! Let's hope it is, as long as we can!"
They had occupied separate rooms since there had been rooms to spare, and when Bee went into hers she took David Lee's book with her. She sat under the gas bracket, reading—a little crooked figure with rapt eyes—until the clock of St. Sepulchre's boomed her to her feet, dismayed.