“What’s he say?” demanded Bulmore, when Eliphalet returned after seeing the doctor out.
“That you must take things easily for a while.”
“Ha! that’s all very well, but rehearsals will be starting soon, and I’ve got to be there, y’know—I must be there. Any news?”
“Not at present. There’s hardly time yet.”
“A fortnight. Ought to be hearing something soon.”
“And depend upon it, we shall,” soothed Eliphalet.
And he was right, for the first copy was returned that evening, with a curt note of refusal.
Eliphalet took it into the sitting-room and read it again and again. It was unbelievable. Power, the likeliest of all managers, had refused his play.
“Can’t have read it,” thought Eliphalet. “Can’t possibly have read it! I mustn’t let Sefton know this.”
So he put the play in a fresh envelope and despatched it elsewhere, and to salve his conscience for the deceit he meant to perpetrate, he bought Bulmore some hothouse grapes and a bottle of calf’s-foot jelly.