“Very clever, I’m sure,” said Mr. Leahurst, not in the least understanding.
Then one day, smiling, he asked her: “Have you set your heart on this being a success?”
“Yes, I have, Mr. Leahurst,” said Emmie earnestly. “You don’t know how much hangs on it.”
“Well, we must see what can be done.”
He tilted his hat to the back of his head, walked down to the orchestra, and clapped his hands loudly. Everything stopped, everybody was turned to stone.
“Mr. Hope,” he said, addressing the producer, “I’m not satisfied.”
“I am very sorry, Mr. Leahurst,” said the producer, in a dreadfully crestfallen way. “I have done my best.”
“The thing’s not going to be ready by the tenth,” said Mr. Leahurst. “We’ll postpone production for a fortnight. Tell ’em there’ll be no call to-morrer.”
Then, in the most autocratic, Napoleonic style, he scrapped the company. Miss Millbank was whirled away in tears to join a tour at Scarborough. Marian D’Arcy, ruthlessly torn out of another play, replaced her. Two of the best-known and highest-priced character actors of Europe came in, and excellent trustworthy veterans were engaged to support them in minutely small rôles.
He had turned it into a star cast, and the word went round that no expense counted. Mr. Leahurst had set his heart on a success. He came every day “to put ginger” into the fresh producer; he consulted Alwyn about his press campaign; and already the advance paragraphing was tremendous. The new scenery, lighting, and dresses were described as likely to touch a high water mark of combined taste and costliness.