Mr. Goble knocked the ash off his cigar. “The public don’t want epigrams. The public don’t like epigrams. I’ve been in the show business fifteen years, and I’m telling you! Epigrams give them a pain under the vest. All right, get on.”
Mr Pilkington fluttered agitatedly. This was his first experience of Mr Goble in the capacity of stage-director. It was the latter’s custom to leave the early rehearsals of the pieces with which he was connected to a subordinate producer, who did what Mr Goble called the breaking-in. This accomplished, he would appear in person, undo most of the other’s work, make cuts, tell the actors how to read their lines, and generally enjoy himself. Producing plays was Mr Goble’s hobby. He imagined himself to have a genius in that direction, and it was useless to try to induce him to alter any decision to which he might have come. He regarded those who did not agree with him with the lofty contempt of an Eastern despot.
Of this Mr Pilkington was not yet aware.
“But, Mr Goble … !”
The potentate swung irritably round on him.
“What is it? What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“That epigram …”
“It’s out!”
“But … !”
“It’s out!”