The Brighton Herald had commented upon the quality and lack of guests in this important function, and Eliphalet, viewing the scene from the wings, was bound to confess there was justice in their observations.
It is not pleasant for an actor of his standing to read in the “What People are Saying” column that “The Ambassador at the Royal this week hasn’t many friends, and what he has hardly seem worth knowing.”
As a general rule, guests can be made to double in other acts with peasants, gardeners, or policemen, but in this particular play there were no peasants, policemen, or gardeners; hence, to invite more than a select few to the Ambassadorial rout was a distinct extravagance. Nevertheless, it would not do if people got hold of the idea that he was cheese-paring. Accordingly, at the end of the matinée, he called the stage-manager, and addressed him as follows:
“Mr. Manning, you will endeavour to find a girl and a young gentleman to walk on in the third act; the stage is not sufficiently dressed.”
“Right you are, Guv’nor,” said the stage-manager. “There was a girl asking for a job at the stage-door five minutes ago. Nip down the road, Sydney, and try and catch the young lady.”
Sydney, the call-boy, departed with speed, and came up with Mary at the corner of the street.
“The Guv’nor wants to have a look at you, miss,” he said. “Might be a shop going.”
With fluttering heart Mary retraced her footsteps, and was led by Sydney to that most hideous of structures, the back of the stage.
But it was all wonderful to Mary, especially when she found herself within a few paces of the great Mr. Cardomay, irreproachably attired in evening-dress, with a velvet collar, and wearing many mystic orders on his white shirt front.
Mr. Manning detached himself from his employer, who melted into the wings, and, twisting the card she had left at the stage-door between forefinger and thumb, approached her.