“Ten o’clock rehearsal tomorrow,” he said. Then with severity, slightly diluted with humour, “No slipping off, mind. Feel I ought to keep an eye on you till that debt’s wiped off.”
It is hard for any one to maintain glorious views as to the future while the present holds a doubt as to his probity in the matter of a five-pound note.
For the second time in his life Wynne occupied the bedroom in the little Villers Street hotel. The good lady proprietress said she really did not remember if he had stayed there before or not, but she “dared say” he had. It was the sight of apparently the same uncooked sirloin surrounded by apparently the same tomatoes which had lured Wynne back to the little eating-house.
At dinner he conversed with the waiter upon technical subjects, and gave his views upon perfection in the art of waiting. The worthy fellow to whom these were addressed was not greatly interested however. He was glad to converse with any one skilled in his native tongue, but a long sojourn in the British Isles had given him taste for a meatier conversational diet, and he preferred the remarks of two men at another table who exchanged views relative to Aston Villa’s chances in the Cup Tie.
In consequence Wynne was left to his own thoughts, which, on this particular night, he found both pleasant and companionable. It was good to feel that at last he would be earning a livelihood by means of an Art, and a good Art too. Not so good, perhaps, but that it might not be a great deal better. In the few rehearsals he had already attended he had noted some glaring conventions and very grave stupidities, which he vowed in the future he would eradicate. The position of producer—a calling of which hitherto he had hardly been aware—suggested, of a sudden, illimitable possibilities.
The producer was the man with the palette and brushes, and the artistes were merely tubes of colour, to be applied how and where they would give the best result. There was no end to what a producer might achieve, and perhaps no better medium for conveying ideas to the public mind than through the stage.
And just as Wynne had said, nearly two years before, “I must learn this trade of painting,” he now determined to master the art of acting in all its variations.
“But I must write, too,” he thought, “and read and work all the time.”
He passed a hand across his forehead and exhaled noisily. Great are the responsibilities which a man will take upon his shoulders!