Wynne was not at his best when humour turned against him. His smile and his frown struck a balance.
“I could quote the names of a dozen brilliant men who did not carry their strength or wit in the lower half of their faces, and illustrate my instances at the National Portrait Gallery.”
“Are you brilliant?” There was no barb to the question.
“It pleases me to think so.”
“One wonders, then, why you are doing this little jobbery in a theatre.”
“Yes, that’s reasonable enough. I wonder, too, sometimes. I suppose I was hungry when I took the engagement.”
“This is not your real work, then?”
“I hardly know what my real work is, but it is not in the market. In theory real work never should be in the market.”
“ ‘And no one shall work for money
And no one shall work for fame,’ ”