"Pictures! I don't want any Miss Barbara Garratry advertisements. I know how she looks. It's you I can't remember. You've had a big success here. Does it make you happy?"
She shook her head.
"Why not?"
"No fight—too easy. That's one of my troubles: there seems to be so little for me to fight for in my work. Lord! that sounds self-satisfied. I don't mean it that way. I mean that developing as an artist is a peaceful process, rather. The days when I had to fight for my chance, fight for my part, fight the stage manager to let me do it my way, fight the audience to make it like me—oh, those were the days that counted! Daddy and I used to talk things over nights. He was cautious. He'd say: 'Well, ye' lose yer job if you do that,' but when I had done it, he used to laugh and say: 'Bob, son av battle, shure enough'."
Paul laughed.
"The dulness of being successful! There's something in it, Bob."
"Of course there is. Report on your week, sir."
"Well, the boys say it went all right, but I didn't seem to have my heart in it. I've been so restless, so sort of bored with people and things. I can't get down to work. I even find myself thinking of what I am going to say to you over the telephone, right in the middle of a speech, with a big audience out there in front of me."
Barbara laughed.
"I suppose I'm tired. I don't know what else can be the matter with me."