Eliphalet blushed at the words, although no undercurrent of satire was conveyed. That same “very admirable performance of Cellini” stood for him as a door that barred him from London theatres for all time.
“Yes, yes,” he said, to hide his confusion, “I do remember you. Mr. Bridge Deansgate, who owns the Mall Theatre, is it not?”
Mr. Deansgate smiled affably.
“But please don’t stand,” he begged. “And, if I may, I will sit beside you. That’s better. Yes, yes, yes; I often wonder why we see so little of you in town, Mr. Cardomay—but perhaps your presence here betokens——”
“No,” came the hasty assurance. “I am spending a few weeks’ holiday before my next tour.”
“Indeed. I understand your recent production was a great success—great. You are stopping in Mayfair—near the Park—yes?”
“I have some rooms in Camden Town.”
“Ah. I have often heard it spoken of as a most healthy district. For the moment I forget the nature of the soil—gravel, I believe. And so you are taking a few weeks’ immunity from work? Umhum! Yes—yes. Now I wonder—but still, if you are resting, perhaps not.”
“You were about to suggest?”
“Nothing, nothing. A fleeting idea, that is all, prompted by this happy encounter. As doubtless you have heard, we are producing ‘Hamlet’ for four weeks, and it occurred to me—but perhaps I should offend you. We have an admirable cast, and in many ways it would be a pleasant engagement. You see, nowadays it is so hard to find actors who still understand the grand old method.”