“I’ve got it!” she cried. “I know you.”
“No, you don’t,” said Danby.
“I do. I recognise you.”
“I think not. No one could recognise me now.”
“But I do. You’re Dick Danby—the Dick Danby. The famous Dick Danby. The Dick Danby who used to set all London laughing, who played Widow Twankey at Drury Lane, and topped the bill at the Tivoli and the Pav.”
The little man’s thin pale hands went up to his face.
“Oh, don’t!” he said, bursting into tears. “I can’t bear it.”
For a moment the girl was not sure whether this unexpected emotion was not part of the celebrated funny man’s comic method. She was about to laugh, when she found that Danby’s shoulders were shaking with very real and very terrible sobs. She was intensely surprised and upset and touched. She had never seen a man cry before. She put a soft hand on his arm.
“Oh, Mr. Danby,” she said, “what is it—what’s the matter?”
“Haven’t you heard? Dick Danby’s done for—gone under—gone phut. Dick Danby that was; Dick Danby that is no more. Dick Danby, that used to make ’em laugh, is a broken man. Oh, my God!”