“But I’ll say this to you, though,” said Blanche. “You are a pig—that’s what you are—an old pig!”
They went out, closing the door as her similes climbed the ladder of abuse in a ringing crescendo.
Later, as they drove through the cool night air, toward the hotel, Eliphalet thoughtfully said:
“You were right, my dear; it wouldn’t have been any good. But it’s a pity for you.”
“Why?” she answered, laying her warm little hand in his. “I’ve got a Daddy fatherums, haven’t I?”
CHAPTER XI
CLOUDS
“The Night Cry” was a failure—and a melancholy failure at that. Why this should have been is hard to understand, since, as a play, it compared favourably with many successful productions in Eliphalet Cardomay’s repertoire. Perhaps the truth was that Eliphalet was getting old. The most skilful tricks of lighting and make-up failed to conceal this obvious fact.
“He ought to retire,” said the wise playgoers, as they passed sorrowfully from the theatre. “A fine old chap, but he’s stopping too long.”
There is nothing in the world destroys confidence more quickly than this kind of talk, and nothing is more easily destroyed than an actor’s reputation. People repeat such phrases for want of something better to say, and slowly but surely it comes back to ears that are ever attentive for a hint of the kind—attentive because their owner’s pockets are affected.
For the last five seasons Eliphalet’s receipts had shown a gradual, almost imperceptible decline, but it was not until the production of “The Night Cry” that the fall was considerable. And it was considerable! The vibrations set in motion thereby automatically were felt afar and closed the purses of the four commercial gentlemen who formed his syndicate.