Eliphalet flushed like a schoolboy praised for his bowling.
“It is all right, then?”
“You’re all right. You’ve forgotten all you learnt in a theatre, and are playing what you’ve learnt in life. If you were twenty, or even ten, years younger——”
“Yes, I’m too old.”
“ ’Course you are—and too old for this part. But it’s a work. You’ll get no gratitude, though, on that account. I’ll tell you what the public and the papers’ll say. They’ll say you are not serving them with the goods they’re accustomed to receive, and you’ll get slanged for default as sure as there’s an agent in Charing Cross Road.”
“What about the others?”
Raymond Wakefield’s mouth went down at the corners like a child about to cry.
“Won’t do! You’ve committed the unforgivable sin of standing by your pals—oh, I know you have—and art and philanthropy don’t mix and never will. My motto is to sack everyone at the end of a run, and then look round afresh. In consequence, I suppose I’m pretty well hated by every actor on the London stage, and the best-beloved of the public.”
“And Miss Mornice June—the wife?” Eliphalet put the question tentatively.
“Naughty, very naughty indeed. D’you know what I’d do with her?”