III
Mr.. Marrier was the first to recover from this blow to the prestigeof poetry. Or perhaps it would be more honest to say that Mr.. Marrierhad suffered no inconvenience from the _contretemps_. His apparentgleeful zest in life had not been impaired. He was a born optimist,of an extreme type unknown beyond the circumferences of theatricalcircles.
"I _say_," he emphasized, "I've got an ideah. We ought to bephotographed like that. Do you no end of good." He glancedencouragingly at Rose Euclid. "Don't you see it in the illustratedpapers? A prayvate supper-party at Wilkins's Hotel. Miss Ra-ose Euclidreciting verse at a discussion of the plans for her new theatre inPiccadilly Circus. The figures, reading from left to right, are, Mr.Seven Sachs, the famous actor-author, Miss Rose Euclid, Mr. CarloTrent, the celebrated dramatic poet, Mr. Alderman Machin, thewell-known Midlands capitalist, and so on!" Mr. Marrier repeated, "andso on."
"It's a notion," said Rose Euclid, dreamily.
"But how _can_ we be photographed?" Carlo Trent demanded withirritation.
"Perfectly easy."
"Now?"
"In ten minutes. I know a photographer in Brook Street."
"Would he come at once?" Carlo Trent frowned at his watch.
"Rather!" Mr. Marrier gaily soothed him, as he went over to thetelephone. And Mr. Marrier's bright, boyish face radiated forth theassurance that nothing in all his existence had more completely filledhim with sincere joy than this enterprise of procuring a photographof the party. Even in giving the photographer's number--he was oneof those prodigies who remember infallibly all telephone numbers--hisvoice seemed to gloat upon his project.
(And while Mr. Marrier, having obtained communication with thephotographer, was saying gloriously into the telephone: "Yes,Wilkins's. No. Quite private. I've got Miss Rose Euclid here, and Mr.Seven Sachs"--while Mr. Marrier was thus proceeding with his list ofstar attractions, Edward Henry was thinking:
"'_Her_ new theatre'--now! It was 'his' a few minutes back!... 'Thewell-known Midlands capitalist,' eh? Oh! Ah!")
He drank again. He said to himself: "I've had all I can digest of thisbeastly balloony stuff." (He meant the champagne.) "If I finish theglass I'm bound to have a bad night." And he finished the glass, andplanked it down firmly on the table.
"Well," he remarked aloud cheerfully. "If we're to be photographed, Isuppose we shall want a bit more light on the subject."
Joseph sprang to the switches.
"Please!" Carlo Trent raised a protesting hand.
The switches were not turned. In the beautiful dimness the greatesttragic actress in the world and the greatest dramatic poet in theworld gazed at each other, seeking and finding solace in mutualesteem.
"I suppose it wouldn't do to call it the Euclid Theatre?" Rosequestioned casually, without moving her eyes.
"Splendid!" cried Mr. Marrier from the telephone.
"It all depends whether there are enough mathematical students inLondon to fill the theatre for a run," said Edward Henry.
"Oh! D'you think so?" murmured Rose, surprised and vaguely puzzled.
At that instant Edward Henry might have rushed from the room andtaken the night-mail back to the Five Towns, and never any more haveventured into the perils of London, if Carlo Trent had not turned hishead, and signified by a curt, reluctant laugh that he saw the joke.For Edward Henry could no longer depend on Mr. Seven Sachs. Mr. SevenSachs had to take the greatest pains to keep the muscles of his facein strict order. The slightest laxity with them--and he would havebeen involved in another and more serious suffocation.
"No," said Carlo Trent, "'The Muses' Theatre' is the only possibletitle. There is money in the poetical drama." He looked hard at EdwardHenry, as though to stare down the memory of the failure of Nashe'sverse. "I don't want money. I hate the thought of money. But money isthe only proof of democratic appreciation, and that is what I need,and what every artist needs.... Don't you think there's money in thepoetical drama, Mr. Sachs?"
"Not in America," said Mr. Sachs. "London is a queer place."
"Look at the runs of Stephen Phillips's plays!"
"Yes.... I only reckon to know America."
"Look at what Pilgrim's made out of Shakspere."
"I thought you were talking about poetry," said Edward Henry toohastily.
"And isn't Shakspere poetry?" Carlo Trent challenged.
"Well, I suppose if you put it in that way, he _is_!" Edward Henrycautiously admitted, humbled. He was under the disadvantage of neverhaving either seen or read "Shakspere." His sure instinct had alwayswarned him against being drawn into "Shakspere."
"And has Miss Euclid ever done anything finer than Constance?"
"I don't know," Edward Henry pleaded.
"Why--Miss Euclid in 'King John'--"
"I never saw 'King John,'" said Edward Henry.
"_Do you mean to say_," expostulated Carlo Trent in italics, "_thatyou never saw Rose Euclid as Constance_?"
And Edward Henry, shaking his abashed head, perceived that his lifehad been wasted.
Carlo, for a few moments, grew reflective and softer.
"It's one of my earliest and most precious boyish memories,"he murmured, as he examined the ceiling. "It must have been ineighteen--"
Rose Euclid abandoned the ice with which she had just been served, andby a single gesture drew Carlo's attention away from the ceiling,and towards the fact that it would be clumsy on his part to indulgefurther in the chronology of her career. She began to blush again.
Mr. Marrier, now back at the table after a successful expedition,beamed over his ice:
"It was your 'Constance' that led to your friendship with the Countessof Chell, wasn't it, Ra-ose? You know," he turned to Edward Henry,"Miss Euclid and the Countess are virry intimate."
"Yes, I know," said Edward Henry.
Rose Euclid continued to blush. Her agitated hand scratched the backof the chair behind her.
"Even Sir John Pilgrim admits I can act Shakspere," she said in athick mournful voice, looking at the cloth as she pronounced theaugust name of the head of the dramatic profession. "It may surpriseyou to know, Mr. Machin, that about a month ago, after he'd quarrelledwith Selina Gregory, Sir John asked me if I'd care to star with him onhis Shaksperean tour round the world next spring, and I said I wouldif he'd include Carlo's poetical play, 'The Orient Pearl,' and hewouldn't! No, he wouldn't! And now he's got little Cora Pryde! Sheisn't twenty-two, and she's going to play Juliet! Can you imagine sucha thing! As if a mere girl could play Juliet!"
Carlo observed the mature actress with deep satisfaction, proud ofher, and proud also of himself.
"I wouldn't go with Pilgrim now," exclaimed Rose, passionately, "notif he went down on his knees to me!"
"And nothing on earth would induce me to let him have 'The OrientPearl'!" Carlo Trent asseverated with equal passion. "He's lost thatfor ever!" he added grimly. "It won't be he who'll collar the profitsout of that! It'll just be ourselves!"
"Not if he went down on his knees to me!" Rose was repeating toherself with fervency.
The calm of despair took possession of Edward Henry. He felt thathe must act immediately--he knew his own mood, by long experience.Exploring the pockets of the dressing-gown which had aroused thelonging of the greatest dramatic poet in the world, he discovered inone of them precisely the piece of apparatus he required--namely, aslip of paper suitable for writing. It was a carbon duplicate of thebill for the dressing-gown, and showed the word "Drook" in massiveprinted black, and the figures L4, 4s. in faint blue. He drew a pencilfrom his waistcoat and inscribed on the paper:
"Go out, and then come back in a couple of minutes and tell me someonewants to speak to me urgently in the next room."
With a minimum of ostentation he gave the document to Joseph, who,evidently well trained under Sir Nicholas, vanished into the next roombefore attempting to read it.
"I hope," said Edward Henry to Carlo Trent, "that this money-makingplay is reserved for the new theatre?"
"Utter
ly," said Carlo Trent.
"With Miss Euclid in the principal part?"
"Rather!" sang Mr. Marrier. "Rather!"
"I shall never, never appear at any other theatre, Mr. Machin!" saidRose, with tragic emotion, once more feeling with her fingers alongthe back of her chair. "So I hope the building will begin at once. Inless than six months we ought to open."
"Easily!" sang the optimist.
Joseph returned to the room, and sought his master's attention in awhisper.
"What is it?" Edward Henry asked irritably. "Speak up!"
"A gentleman wishes to know if he can speak to you in the next room,sir."
"Well, he can't."
"He said it was urgent, sir."
Scowling, Edward Henry rose. "Excuse me," he said. "I won't be amoment. Help yourselves to the liqueurs. You chaps can go, I fancy."The last remark was addressed to the gentlemen-in-waiting.
The next room was the vast bedroom with two beds in it. Edward Henryclosed the door carefully, and drew the _portiere_ across it. Then helistened. No sound penetrated from the scene of the supper.
"There _is_ a telephone in this room, isn't there?" he said to Joseph."Oh, yes, there it is! Well, you can go."
"Yes, sir."
Edward Henry sat down on one of the beds by the hook on which hungthe telephone. And he cogitated upon the characteristics of certainmembers of the party which he had just left. "I'm a 'virgin mind,'am I?" he thought. "I'm a 'clean slate'? Well!... Their notion ofbusiness is to begin by discussing the name of the theatre! And theyhaven't even taken up the option! Ye gods! 'Intellectual'! 'Muses'!'The Orient Pearl.' And she's fifty--that I swear! Not a word yet ofreal business--not one word! He may be a poet. I daresay he is. He'sa conceited ass. Why, even Bryany was better than that lot. OnlySachs turned Bryany out. I like Sachs. But he won't open his mouth....'Capitalist'! Well, they spoilt my appetite, and I hate champagne!...The poet hates money.... No, he 'hates the thought of money.' Andshe's changing her mind the whole blessed time! A month ago she'dhave gone over to Pilgrim, and the poet too, like ahouse-a-fire!...Photographed indeed! The bally photographer will behere in a minute!... They take me for a fool!... Or don't they knowany better?... Anyhow, I am a fool.... I must teach 'em summat!"
He seized the telephone.
"Hello!" he said into it. "I want you to put me on to the drawing-roomof Suite No. 48, please. Who? Oh, me! I'm in the bedroom of Suite No.48. Machin, Alderman Machin. Thanks. That's all right."
He waited. Then he heard Harrier's Kensingtonian voice in thetelephone asking who he was.
"Is that Mr. Machin's room?" he continued, imitating with a broadfarcical effect the acute Kensingtonianism of Mr. Marrier's tones. "IsMiss Ra-ose Euclid there? Oh! She is! Well, you tell her that Sir JohnPilgrim's private secretary wishes to speak to her? Thanks. All right._I_'ll hold the line."
A pause. Then he heard Rose's voice in the telephone, and he resumed:
"Miss Euclid? Yes. Sir John Pilgrim. I beg pardon! Banks? Oh, _Banks_!No, I'm not Banks. I suppose you mean my predecessor. He's left. Leftlast week. No, I don't know why. Sir John instructs me to ask if youand Mr. Trent could lunch with him to-morrow at wun-thirty? What?Oh! at his house. Yes. I mean flat. Flat! I said flat. You think youcould?"
Pause. He could hear her calling to Carlo Trent.
"Thanks. No, I don't know exactly," he went on again. "But I know thearrangement with Miss Pryde is broken off. And Sir John wants a playat once. He told me that! At once! Yes. 'The Orient Pearl.' That wasthe title. At the Royal first, and then the world's tour. Fifteenmonths at least in all, so I gathered. Of course I don't speakofficially. Well, many thanks. Saoo good of you. I'll tell Sir Johnit's arranged. One-thirty to-morrow. Good-bye!"
He hung up the telephone. The excited, eager, effusive tones of RoseEuclid remained in his ears. Aware of a strange phenomenon on hisforehead, he touched it. He was perspiring.
"I'll teach 'em a thing or two," he muttered.
And again:
"Serves her right.... 'Never, never appear at any other theatre, Mr.Machin!' ... 'Bended knees!' ... 'Utterly!' ... Cheerful partners! Oh!cheerful partners!"
He returned to his supper-party. Nobody said a word about thetelephoning. But Rose Euclid and Carlo Trent looked even more likeconspirators than they did before; and Mr. Marrier's joy in lifeseemed to be just the least bit diminished.
"So sorry!" Edward Henry began hurriedly, and, without consulting thepoet's wishes, subtly turned on all the lights. "Now, don't you thinkwe'd better discuss the question of taking up the option? You know, itexpires on Friday."
"No," said Rose Euclid, girlishly. "It expires to-morrow. That's whyit's so _fortunate_ we got hold of you to-night."
"But Mr. Bryany told me Friday. And the date was clear enough on thecopy of the option he gave me."
"A mistake of copying," beamed Mr. Marrier. "However, it's all right."
"Well," observed Edward Henry with heartiness, "I don't mind tellingyou that for sheer calm coolness you take the cake. However, as Mr.Marrier so ably says, it's all right. Now I understand if I go intothis affair I can count on you absolutely, and also on Mr. Trent'sservices." He tried to talk as if he had been diplomatizing withactresses and poets all his life.
"A--absolutely!" said Rose.
And Mr. Carlo Trent nodded.
"You Iscariots!" Edward Henry addressed them, in the silence of thebrain, behind his smile. "You Iscariots!"
The photographer arrived with certain cases, and at once Rose Euclidand Carlo Trent began instinctively to pose.
"To think," Edward Henry pleasantly reflected, "that they are huggingthemselves because Sir John Pilgrim's secretary happened to telephonejust while I was out of the room!"
CHAPTER V
MR SACHS TALKS
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