“It's absurd to think of her suspecting,” said John.
Herold's nervous fingers snapped the cigarette in two.
“She must never suspect,” said he.
“Do you think I'm a devil?” said John.
“No. You 're a good fellow. Who knows it better than I? But you 're passionate and impulsive. You must be on your guard—not for the next two or three days, but for ever and ever.”
“All right,” said John. “Now put the matter out of your mind.”
Herold nodded, squeezed the burning end of his broken cigarette into an ash-tray, and lit another.
“You 're looking fagged out, Wallie,” said John, after a while. “What have you been doing?”
“Nothing in particular. This part is rather trying, and I've not had a holiday for a couple of years. I want one rather badly. I don't complain,” he added, with a smile, glad to get away from the torturing talk of Stellamaris. “During the two years I 've been working, scores of better actors than I have n't been able to get an engagement. I'm a spoilt child of fortune. My time will come, I suppose, when they no longer want me.”
The talk drifted to the precariousness of the actor's calling. Even men in demand from every management found a difficulty in making a living. Herold instanced Brownlow, one of the few jeunes premiers of the stage, who had slaved every day for a year, and having been in four or five successive failures, found himself, at the end of it, the recipient of three months' salary. Six weeks' slavery at rehearsal for nothing, and a two weeks' run! The system ought to be changed. John agreed, as he had agreed to the same argument a thousand times before.