“Heated,” corrected Mr. Danks, “heated! Before I went to my uncle’s in Southampton Street, Camberwell, to take lessons, I used to drop ’em like—like anything.”
“Never trouble about trifles meself.”
“For public men like me and you,” said Mr. Danks. He stopped a giggle, perceiving that what he had thought to be a humorous remark did not, judging from Erb’s expression, really bear that character. “Like me and you,” he went on, “the letter aitch is one of the toughest difficulties that we have to encounter. In my profession, at one time, it was looked on, to use your words, as a trifle. Those times, Mr. Barnes, are gone and done with. The ability to aspirate the letter aitch in the right place—in the right place, mind you—has done more to break down the barriers that separated class from class than any other mortal thing in this blessed world.”
“I wonder, now,” said Erb, with some interest, “whether you’re talking rot, or whether there’s something in what you say?”
“If you think anything more of it,” said Mr. Danks, feeling in his waistcoat pocket, “take my uncle’s card, and go on and chat it over with him.”
“‘Professor of Elocution. Declamation Taught!’” read Erb.
“His daughter knows you; heard you speak in Southwark Park.”
“Not a lame girl?”
“If I hadn’t gone to him,” said Mr. Danks nodding affirmatively, “I should never have known how to recite.”
“Nice drawback that would have been. So her name’s Danks?”