“Come round to the bar at the back of the circle,” said Railton, “and you can give me a drink,” he added generously.
A few members of the company were near the bar, and Railton, to compensate for the presence of such an ordinary-looking companion, began to talk loudly and condescendingly. Never drank till after the show, he explained, some drank during the performance, but none of the best men did so. One could not give a good reading of the part unless one observed the principles of strict abstemiousness. He flattered himself that he was not one likely to make mistakes, and he held his future, as it were, well and securely in both hands. If Erb would promise not to let the matter go any further, he would show him, in the strictest confidence, a letter from a West End manager, that would prove how near one could be to conspicuous success.
“Not that one,” he said, opening a violet envelope. “That’s from a dear thing at Skipton. Worships the very ground I walk on.”
The letter in question fell on the floor. Erb picked it up and, in doing so, could not help noticing that it began: “Sir, unless you forward two and eight by return, the parcel of laundry will be sold without—”
“Here it is,” cried Railton. “‘Mr. So-and-so thanks Mr. Lawrence Railton for his note, and regrets that the arrangements for the forthcoming production are complete.’” “Regrets, you see, mark that! A post earlier, and evidently he would have—don’t drown it, my dear chap!”
“In regard,” said Erb, putting down the water-bottle, “to Miss Rosalind Danks.”
“I hadn’t finished what I was saying.”
“Didn’t mean you should. Let’s drop your personal grievances for a bit. Why didn’t you come round and see her before she left?”
“Now that,” said Railton, leaning an elbow on the counter, “goes straight to the very crux of the question. That’s just where I wanted to carry you. I hate a man who wastes time on preliminaries. My idea always is that if you’ve got a thing to say, say it!”
“Well then, say it!”