“And now,” I said, while the waiter was bringing the bill, “where would you like to go?”
“I don’t mind,” he said. “What about a music-hall? I haven’t seen one for twenty years. There’s a cinema about five miles from my place, but it’s too dear. Only the millionaires can use it.”
“Very well, then,” I said, “we’ll go to a music-hall; but you’ll find that they’ve changed a bit.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, “so long as there’s something good. There’s so much variety in a music-hall, one turn after another, don’t you know, that you can’t go far wrong.”
My spirits sank. East Africa had kept his youth in camphor, and he had no knowledge of the wonderful advances that we have been making. Turns indeed!
“I’ll do the best I can for you,” I said, “but I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”
“Oh, no,” he assured me stoutly, “not in a music-hall. I’ve been wanting to see one again for years. I suppose Jimmy Fawn isn’t still going?”
My spirits fell lower.
We went to one of the regular places, and, as I had feared, found a revue in full blast. Topical talk, scenery and American songs interminably. Every time a new person came on the stage my friend eagerly perked up and lost his depression, hoping that at last it might be one of his old delights—a juggler or knockabout or something like that—but always he was disappointed.
“I say, where are we?” he asked. “This isn’t a music-hall, is it?”