So strange is the working of the human mind that this outward display of weakness at once affected Eliphalet’s appreciation of “A Man’s Way.” He felt that it was impossible that originality and power could flow from such a source. Subconsciously he was offended that that high, narrow forehead and the thin, nervous hands before him could have produced in literature such vigorous characteristics.
And while these thoughts were passing through his brain Mr. Theodore Lennard stuttered out his apologies and excuses for intruding.
“Not at all,” said Eliphalet. “I am very pleased to see you. Sit down, and we will have some tea.”
It was not until tea had come and gone that the subject of the play was broached. Freddie Manning was the one to introduce it, and he did so as though it were of secondary interest to a tooth he was picking with the whisker of a recently-devoured prawn.
“To be sure,” echoed Eliphalet. “The play! Well, Mr. Lennard, we have read it and, with certain reservations, we like it.”
“Think it not too bad,” amended Manning, who had broken the prawn’s whisker at a critical point of leverage and was naturally put out about it.
Mr. Lennard smiled from one to the other to show his willingness to accept praise or censure with equal avidity.
“Granted certain minor alterations,” pursued Eliphalet, “we might even be prepared to put the piece into rehearsal.”
“That’s most awfully good of you. Very, very kind indeed,” bleated Mr. Lennard.
“I imagine this is your first play,” and scarcely waiting for the nod of affirmation, Eliphalet went on, “and that being so, you understand the—er—remuneration would not be large—would, in fact, be—er—small.”