“Mr. Manning,” she had said, “do be a dear and tell me straight out what my chances are.”
Manning rubbed his small, round ended nose and screwed up his features, like a child before a dose of physic.
“Dare say there’ll be a walk-on for you in the next show,” he said at last.
“But I mean my chances of a part—a real part.”
“Umph!” remarked the stage-manager. “What do you want to play parts for, anyway?”
“But I do. Please tell me, and don’t tease.”
Mr. Manning could be very straightforward when he wished.
“Acting’s like everything else,” he said. “It’s got to be learned. No one’s going to give you a part unless you give something in return.”
It was a perfectly innocent speech, but, thanks to the vapourings of Flora, Eunice Terry read its meaning all wrong.
“And that’s the only way to get on?” she asked nervously.