As if in support of this statement he suddenly emitted a terrific bellow. The effect was magical. The refined and painstaking artists on the stage stopped as if they had been shot. The assistant stage-director bent sedulously over the footlights, which had now been turned up, shading his eyes with the prompt script.
“Take that over again!” shouted Mr Goble. “Yes, that speech about life being like a water-melon. It don’t sound to me as though it meant anything.” He cocked his cigar at an angle, and listened fiercely. He clapped his hands. The action stopped again. “Cut it!” said Mr Goble tersely.
“Cut the speech, Mr Goble?” queried the obsequious assistant stage-director.
“Yes. Cut it. It don’t mean nothing!”
Down the aisle, springing from a seat at the back, shimmered Mr Pilkington, wounded to the quick.
“Mr Goble! Mr Goble!”
“Well?”
“That is the best epigram in the play.”
“The best what?”
“Epigram. The best epigram in the play.”