"You want, I take it," said the stranger to the manager, "to make your theatre the most interesting in London?"
"Naturally," the manager replied. "I do all I can to make it so, as it is."
"Perhaps," said the stranger; "we shall see. But I have it in my power to make it vastly more interesting than any theatre has ever been."
"You have a play?" the manager inquired; amending this, after another glance, to "You know of a play?"
"Play? No. I'm not troubling about plays," said the caller. "Plays—what are plays? No, I'm bringing you a live idea."
"But I don't wish to make any change in the style of my performances," said the manager. "If you're thinking of a new kind of entertainment for me—super-cinema, or that 'real revue' which authors are always threatening me with—I don't want it. I intend to keep my stage for the legitimate drama."
The stranger had been growing more and more restless. "My dear Sir," he now protested, "do let us understand each other. Have I ever mentioned the word 'stage'? Have I? No. Your stage is nothing to me; it doesn't come into the matter at all. Do what you like on the stage, but let me tackle the front of the house. That's the real battle-ground. My scheme, which I bring to you first of all, because I think of you as the least unenlightened of all London managers, is concerned solely with the audience. Will you promise not to mention it for a week if I unfold it to you?"
The manager promised.
"Very well," said the other, settling down to business, "Let us begin by looking at audiences. What are they made of? Human beings. What kind of human beings? The nobs and the mob. What is the favourite occupation of the nobs? Recognising other nobs. What comes next? Seeing who the other nobs have got with them. What is the favourite occupation of the mob? Identifying nobs and saying how disappointed they are with their appearance. Isn't that so?"
"More or less," said the manager.