"But she's a good soul. I'd trust Lizzie with every ha'penny I have, but I wouldn't trust that old cat of an aunt of hers with a brass farthing. She's too religious to be honest. That's my opinion of her. Come on down and see the wife!" He rose from his seat as he spoke. "I suppose you've never tried your hand at a play, have you?" he asked, leading the way to the door.
"No, not yet, but I had a notion of trying," John said, following him.
"I could give you a few tips if you needed advice," Mr. Cream continued, as they descended the stairs. "As a matter of fact, the wife and me are in need of a new piece for the halls, and it struck me this morning when I heard you were a writer, that mebbe you could do a piece for us. It would be practice for you!"
"What about Mr. Hinde?" John asked.
"I've tried him time after time, but it's no good asking. He's a journalist, and a journalist can only work when he's excited. Put him down to something that needs thought and care, and he's lost. And he always says he's writing a tragedy about St. Patrick and can't think of anything else!"
John smiled, without quite understanding why he was smiling, and followed Mr. Cream into the ground floor sitting-room where Mrs. Cream was lying on a sofa.
"This is the wife," Mr. Cream said. "Dolly, this is Mr.... Mr!..."
"MacDermott," John prompted.
"Oh, yes, of course. Mr. MacDermott. Lizzie did tell me, but I can never remember Irish names somehow!"
Mrs. Cream extended a limp hand to John. "You must excuse me for not getting up," she said, "but I'm always very tired in the morning!"