He climbed into a box; with amazing ease jumped on to the stage. Bulky as was his figure, almost pouter pigeon in certain postures, there was nothing funny about Cleeburg in action. It was the fire of his genius, the spark that lighted his homely face with inspiration, that commanded respect. Even with a handkerchief tied round his neck as it always was in hot weather and the open sleeves of his silk shirt flopping like awkward wings, no one thought of smiling. One merely listened.
He gave a few instructions to the property men and slipped back to his wife’s dressing-room, poking his head in at the door.
She was changing to a tea-gown, a lovely shimmery gold thing that brought out the reds in her hair like touches of flame.
“Well, how does it go?” she asked. “Any suggestions?”
“Not half a one. Couldn’t be improved. And John—he was made for you!”
She dropped her eyes to examine a tiny rip in the train.
“Better mend this, Suzanne, before I go on. It might catch on something.”
“Glad we’ve got him sewed up tight. First thing you know, one of the boys’d be offering to star him and then biffo, we’d lose him!”
“He is—wonderful.” She did not raise her eyes as the maid’s needle flashed in and out of the soft fabric, then looked up suddenly. “Lewis thinks we have a big hit.”
[176]
] “Lewis knows his business. You never had a chance that touched it—comedy and the big heart stuff combined. Try a little more red, honey. You look pale. Tired out, eh?”