 CHAPTER IX THE FIRST NIGHT ONE. It was upon an evening in June, and a fine evening, full of the exquisite melancholy summer in a city, that Edward Henry stood before a window, drumming thereon, as he had once, a less experienced man, with hair slightly less gray, drummed on the table of the mighty and arrogant Slosson. The window was the window of the managerial room of the Regent Theatre, and he could scarcely believe it. He could scarcely believe that he was not in a dream, for the room was papered, carpeted, and otherwise furnished. Only its electric light fittings were somewhat hasty and provisional, and the white ceiling showed a hull and a bunch of wires, like the nerves of a hollow tooth, when Swan of Edward Henry's favourite chandeliers would ultimately depend. The hull of the theatre was at least as far advanced towards completion as that room. A great deal of it was more advanced—for instance, the auditorium, foyer, and bars, which were utterly finished, so far as anything ever is finished in a changing world. Wonders, marvels, and miracles had been accomplished. Mr. Alloide, in the stress of the job, had even ceased to bring the Russian ballet into his conversations. Mr. Alloide, despite a growing tendency to prove to Edward Henry by authentic anecdote about midnight, his general proposition that women, as a sex, treated him with shameful unfairness, had gained the highest steam of Edward Henry as an architect. He had filled his word about those properties of the auditorium, which had to do with hearing and seeing, in so much that the auditorium was indeed unique in London, and he had taken care that the Clark of the Works took care that the builder did not give up heart in the race with time. Moreover, he maintained the peace with the terrible London County Council, all of whose inspecting departments seemed to have secretly decided that the Regent Theatre should be open, not in June, as Edward Henry had decided, but at some vague future date towards the middle of the century. Months earlier Edward Henry had ordained and announced that the Regent Theatre should be inaugurated on a given date in June, at the full height and splendour of the London season, and he had astounded the theatrical world by adhering through thick and thin to that date, and had thereby intensified his reputation as an eccentric, for the oldest inhabitant of that world could not recall a case in which the opening of a new theatre had not been promised for at least three widely different dates. Edward Henry had now arrived at the eve of the dread date, and if he had arrived there in comparative safety, with a reasonable prospect to avoid incomplete shame and disaster, he felt, and he admitted, that the credit was due as much to Mr. Arloid as to himself, which only confirmed an early impression of his that architects were queer people, rather like artists and poets in some ways, but with a basis of bricks and mortar to them. His own share in the enterprise of the Regent had in theory been confined to engaging the right people for the right tasks and situations, and to signing checks. He had depended chiefly upon Mr. Marrior, who, growing more radiant every day, had gradually developed into a sort of chubby Napoleon, taking an immense delight in detail, and choosing minor hands at round some salaries on the spur of the moment. Mr. Marrior refused no call upon his energy. He was helping Carlo Trent in the production and stage management of the play. He dried the tears of girlish near-fights at rehearsals. He helped to number the stalls. He showed a passionate interest in the tessellated pavement of the entrance. He taught the managerial typewriting girl how to make afternoon tea. He went to Hitchin to find a medieval chair required for the third act, and found it. In a word, he was fully equal to the post of acting manager. He managed. He managed everything and everybody except Edward Henry, and except the press agent, a functionary whose conviction of his own indispensability and importance was so sincere that even Marrior shared it, and left him alone in his Bismarckian operations. The press agent, who sang in musical comedy chorus at night, knew that if the regent theatre succeeded, it would be his doing, and his alone. And yet Edward Henry, though he had delegated everything, had yet found a vast amount of work to do, and was thereby exhausted. That was why he was drumming on the pain. That was why he was conscious of a foolish desire to shove his fists through the pain. During the afternoon, he had had two scenes with two representatives of the libraries, so called because they deal in theatre tickets and not in books, who had declined to take up any of his tickets in advance. He had commenced an action against a firm of bill posters. He had settled an incipient strike in the Limes Department, originated by Mr. Cosmo Clark's views about lighting. He had dictated answers to seventy-nine letters of complaint from unknown people concerning the supply of free seats for the first night. He had responded in the negative to a request from a newspaper critic who, on the score that he was deaf, wanted a copy of the play. He had replied finally to an official of the county council about the smoke-trap over the stage. He had replied finally to another official of the county council about the electric sign. He had attended to a new curiosity on the part of another official of the county council about the iron curtain, but he had been almost rude to still another official of the county council about the wiring of the electric light in the dressing-rooms. He had been unmistakably and pleasurably rude in writing to Slosons about their criticism of the lock on the door of Lord Waldo's private entrance to the theatre. Also, he had arranged with the representative of the Chief Commissioner of Police, concerning the carriage regulations for setting down and taking up. And he had, indeed, had more than enough. His nerves, though he did not know it, and would have scorned the imputation were slowly giving way. Hence, really, the danger to the pain. Through the pain, in the dying light, he could see a cross-section of Shaftesbury Avenue, and an aged newspaper lad leaning against a lamppost and displaying a poster which spoke of Isabelle Joy. Isabelle Joy yet again—that little fact of itself contributed to his exasperation. He thought, considering the importance of the Regent Theatre and the salary he was paying to his press-agent, that the newspapers ought to occupy their pages solely with the metropolitan affairs of Edward Henry Macin. But though wretched Isabelle had, as it were, got London by the throat, she had reached Chicago from the west on her triumphant way home, and had there contrived to be arrested, according to boast. But she was experiencing much more difficulty in emerging from the Chicago prison than in entering it. And the question was now becoming acute whether the emissary of the militant suffragettes would arrive back in London within the specified period of a hundred days. Naturally, London was holding its breath. London will keep calm during moderate crises, such as a national strike or the agony of the House of Lords. But when the supreme excitation is achieved, London knows how to let itself go. If you please, Mr. Macin. He turned. It was his typewriter, Ms. Lindop, a young girl of some thirty-five years, holding a tea-tree. But I've had my tea once, he snapped. But you've not had your dinner, sir, at its half-bast eight, she pleaded. He had known this girl for less than a month, and he paid her fewer shillings a week than the years of her age. And yet somehow she had assumed a worshiping charge of him, based on the idea that he was incapable of taking care of himself. To look at her appealing eyes, one might have thought that she would have died to ensure his welfare. And they want to see you about the linoleum for the gallery stairs. She added timidly, the county councilman says it must be taken up. The linoleum for the gallery stairs. Something snapped in him. He almost walked right through the young woman and the tea-tree. I'll linoleum them, he bitterly exclaimed, and disappeared. Two. Having duly linoleum them, or rather having very annoyingly quite failed to linoleum them, Edward Henry continued his way up to the right-hand gallery staircase, and reached the auditorium, where, to his astonishment, a good deal of electricity at one penny-three farthings a unit was blazing. Every seat in the narrow and high-pitched gallery, where at the sides the knees of one spectator would be on a level with the picture hat of the spectator in the robe beneath, had a perfect and entire view of the proscenium opening. And Edward Henry now proved this unprecedented fact by climbing to the topmost corner seat, and therefrom surveying the scene of which he was monarch. The boxes were swathed in their new white dust sheets, and likewise the higgledy-piggledy stalls, not as yet screwed down to the floor, save three or four stalls in the middle of the front row, from which the sheet had been removed. On one of these seats, far off though it was, he could describe a paper bag, probably containing sandwiches, and on another a pair of gloves and a walking stick. Several alert ladies with sketchbooks walked uneasily about in the aisles. The orchestra was hidden in the well provided for it, and apparently murmuring in its sleep. The magnificent drop-curtain, designed by Saracen Givington, A. R. A., concealed the stage. Suddenly Mr. Marrier and Carlo Trent appeared through the iron door that gave communication to initiates between the stage and the auditorium. They sat down in the stalls, and the curtain rose with a violent swish, and disclosed the first set of the Orient Pearl. What about that amber-cosmo? Mr. Marrier cried thickly after a pause, his mouth occupied with sandwich. There you are! came the reply. Right! said Mr. Marrier's strike. Don't strike! contradicted Carlo Trent. Strike, I tell you, we must get on with second act! The voices resounded clearly in the empty theatre. The stage was invaded by scene-shifters before the curtain could descend again. Edward Henry heard a tripping step behind him. It was the faithful type-writing girl. I say, he said, do you mind telling me what's going on here? It's true that in the rush of more important business I've almost forgotten that a theatre is a place where they perform plays. It's the dress rehearsal, Mr. Machin, said the woman, startled and apologetic. But the dress rehearsal was fixed for three o'clock, said he. It must have been finished three hours ago. I think they've only just done the first act. The woman breathed. I know they didn't begin till seven. Oh, Mr. Machin, of course it's no affair of mine, but I've worked in a good many theatres, and I do think it's such a mistake to have the dress rehearsal quite private. If you get a hundred people also on the stalls, then it's an audience, and there's much less delay and everything goes much better. But when it's private, a dress rehearsal is just like any other rehearsal. Only more so, perhaps, said Edward Henry, smiling. He saw that he had made her happy, but he saw also that he had given her empire over him. I've got your tea here, she said, rather like a hospital nurse now. Won't you drink it? I'll drink it if it's not stewed, he muttered. Oh, she protested. Of course it isn't! I poured it off the leaves into another teapot before I brought it up. She went behind the barrier, and reappeared balancing a cup of tea with a slice of sultana cake edged on the saucer, and as she handed it to him, the sustenance of rehearsals. She gazed at him, and he could almost hear her eyes saying, You poor thing! There was nothing that he hated so much as to be pitted. You go home! he commanded. Oh, but you go home! See! he paused, threatening. If you don't clear out on the teak, I'll chuck this cup and saucer down into the stalls. Horrified, she vanished. He sighed his relief. After some time, the leader of the orchestra climbed into his chair, and the orchestra began to play, and the curtain went up again on the second act of the masterpiece in Hexameters. The new scenery which Edward Henry had with extraordinary courage insisted on Saracen-Givington substituting for the original incomprehensibilities displayed at the Azure Society's performance, rather pleased him. Its colouring was agreeable, and it did resemble something definite. You could, though perhaps not easily, tell what it was meant to represent. The play proceeded, and the general effect was surprisingly pleasant to Edward Henry, and then Rose Euclid, as Hady, came on for the great scene of the act. From the distance of the gallery she looked quite possibly youthful, and beyond question she had a dominating presence in her resplendent costume. She was incomparably and amazingly better than she had been at the few previous rehearsals which Edward Henry had been unfortunate enough to witness. She even reminded him of his earliest entrancing vision of her. Some people may like this, he admitted, with a gleam of optimism. Here the two, for weeks past, he had gone forward with his preparations in the most frigid and convinced pessimism. It seemed to him that he had become involved in a vast piece of machinery, and that nothing short of blowing the theatre up with dynamite would bring the cranks and pistons to a stop. And yet it seemed to him that everything was unreal, that the contracts he signed were unreal, and the proofs he passed, and the posters he saw on the walls of London, and the advertisements in the newspapers. Only the checks he drew had the air of being real. And now in the magic flash, after a few moments gazing at the stage, he saw all differently. He sent in triumph, from afar off, as one sniffs the tang of the sea. On the morrow he had to meet Nellie at Houston, and he had shrunk from meeting her with her terrible remorseless provincial untheatrical common sense. But now in another magic flash he envisaged the meeting with a cock-a-doodle-doo of hope. Strange. He admitted it was strange. And then he failed to hear several words spoken by Rose Euclid. And then a few more. As the emotion of the scene grew, the proportion of her words audible in the gallery diminished, until she became for him totally inarticulate, raving away there and struggling in a cocoon of hexameters. Despair seized him. His nervous system, every separate nerve of it, was on the rack once more. He stood up in a sort of paroxysm, and called loudly across the vast intervening space. Speak more distinctly, please! A fearful silence fell upon the whole theatre. The rehearsal stopped. The building itself seemed to be staggered. Somebody had actually demanded that words should be uttered articulately. Mr. Marrier turned towards the intruder, as one determined to put an end to such singularities. Who's up there? I am, said Edward Henry, and I want it to be clearly understood, in my theatre, that the first thing an actor has to do is to make himself heard. I dare say I'm devilish odd, but that's how I look at it. Whom do you mean, Mr. Machen? asked Marrier in a different tone. I mean Miss Euclid, of course. Here I've spent heaven knows how much on the acoustics of this theatre, and I can't make out a word she says. I can hear all the others, and this is the dress rehearsal. You must remember you're in the gallery, said Mr. Marrier firmly. And what if I am? I'm not giving gallery seats away to-morrow night. It's true I'm giving half the stalls away, but the gallery will be paid for. Another silence. Said Rose Euclid sharply, and Edward Henry caught every word with the most perfect distinctness. I'm sick and tired of people saying they can't make out what I say. They actually write me letters about it. Why should people make out what I say? She quitted the stage. Another silence. Ring down the curtain, said Mr. Marrier in a thrilled voice. Three. Shortly afterwards, Mr. Marrier came into the managerial office, lit up now, where Edward Henry was dictating to his typewriter and hospital nurse, who, having been caught in hat and jacket on the threshold, had been brought back, and was tapping his words direct onto the machine. It was a remarkable fact that the sole proprietor of the Regent Theatre was now in high spirits and good humour. Well, Marrier, my boy, he saluted the acting manager. How are you getting on with that rehearsal? It wells her, said Mr. Marrier. I'm not getting on with it. Miss Euclid refuses absolutely to proceed. She's in her dressing room. But why? inquired Edward Henry with bland surprise. Doesn't she want to be heard by her gallery boys? Mr. Marrier showed an enfeebled smile. She hasn't been spoken to like that for thirty years, said he. But don't you agree with me? asked Edward Henry. Yes, said Marrier. I agree with you. And doesn't your friend Carlo want his precious hexameters to be heard? We both agree with you, said Marrier. The fact is, we've done all we could, but it's no use. She's splendid. Only— he paused. Only you can't make out ten percent of what she says. Edward Henry finished for him. Well, I've got no use for that in my theatre. He found a singular pleasure in emphasising the phrase my theatre. That's all very well, said Marrier. But what are you going to do about it? I've tried everything. You've come in and bussed up the entire show, if you'll forgive me saying so. Do? said Edward Henry. It's perfectly simple. All you have to do is to act. God bless my soul. Aren't you getting fifteen pounds a week and aren't you my acting manager? Act then. You've done enough hinting. You've proved that hints are no good. You'd have known that from your birth up, Marrier, if you'd been born in the five towns. Act, my boy. But how? If she won't go on, she won't. Is her understudy in the theatre? Yes. It's Miss Cunningham, you know. What salary does she get? Ten pounds a week. What for? Well, partly to understudy, I suppose. Let her earn it then. Go on with the rehearsal, and let her play the part tomorrow night. She'll be delighted, you bet. But... Miss Lindoppe? Edward Henry interrupted. Will you please read to Mr Marrier what I've dictated? He turned to Marrier. It's an interview with myself, for one of tomorrow's papers. Miss Lindoppe, with tears in her voice, if not her eyes, obeyed the order, and drawing the paper from the machine read its contents aloud. Mr Marrier started back, not in the figurative, but in the literal sense, as he listened. But you'll never send that out? he exclaimed. Why not? No paper will print it. My dear Marrier, said Edward Henry, don't be a simpleton. You know, as well as I do, that half a dozen papers will be delighted to print it, and all the rest will copy the one that does print it. It'll be the talk of London tomorrow, and Isabelle Joy will be absolutely snuffed out. Well, said Mr Marrier, I never heard of such a thing. Pity you didn't, then. Mr Marrier moved away. I say, he murmured at the door. Don't you think you ought to read that to Rose first? I'll read it to Rose like a bird, said Edward Henry. Within two minutes it was impossible to get from his room to the dressing-rooms in less. He was knocking at Rose Euclid's door. Who's there? said a voice. He entered, and then replied, I am. Rose Euclid was smoking a cigarette, and scratching the arm of an easy chair behind her. Her maid stood nearby with a whisky and soda. Sorry, you can't go on with the rehearsal, Miss Euclid, said Edward Henry very quickly. However, we must do the best we can. But Mr Marrier thought you'd like to hear this. It's part of an interview with me that's going to appear tomorrow in the press. Without pausing, he went on to read. I found Mr Alderman Machen, the hero of the Five Towns, and the proprietor and initiator of London's newest and most up-to-date and most intellectual theatre, surrounded by a complicated apparatus of telephones and typewriters in his managerial room at the regent. He received me very courteously. Yes, he said, in response to my question, the rumour is quite true. The principal part in the Orient Pearl will be played on the first night by Miss Euclid's understudy, Miss Olga Cunningham. A young woman of very remarkable talent. No, Miss Euclid is not ill or even indisposed. But she and I have had a grave difference of opinion. The point between us was whether Miss Euclid's speeches ought to be clearly audible in the auditorium. I considered they ought. I may be wrong. I may be provincial. But that was and is my view. At the dress rehearsal, seated in the gallery, I could not hear her lines. I objected. She refused to consider the objection or to proceed with the rehearsal. Hink Illai Lachrymai. Not at all, said Mr. Machin in reply to a question. I have the highest admiration for Miss Euclid's genius. I should not presume to dictate to her as to her art. She has a very long experience of the stage, very long, and doubtless knows better than I do. Only the regent happens to be my theatre, and I am responsible for it. Every member of the audience will have a complete, uninterrupted view of the stage, and I intend that every member of the audience shall hear every word that is uttered on the stage. I am odd, I know, but then I have a reputation for oddness to keep up. And, by the way, I am sure that Miss Cunningham will make a great reputation for herself. Not while I am here she won't, exclaimed Rose Euclid, standing up and denunciating her words with marvellous clearness. Edward Henry glanced at her, and then continued to read. Suggestions for headline. Pick on quarrel between manager and star actress. Unparalleled situation. Trouble at the regent theatre. Mr. Machin, said Rose Euclid, you are not a gentleman. You'd hardly think so, would you? mused Edward Henry as if mildly interested in this new discovery of Miss Euclid's. Maria, said the star to her maid, go and tell Mr. Marriot I'm coming. And I'll get back to the gallery, said Edward Henry. It's the place for people like me, isn't it? I dare say I'll tear up this paper later, Miss Euclid. We'll see. Four. On the next night a male figure in evening dress and a pale overcoat might have been seen standing at the corner of Piccadilly Circus and Lower Regent Street, staring at an electric sign in the shape of a shield which said in its glittering, throbbing, speech of incandescence, the regent, Rose Euclid, in The Orient Pearl. The figure crossed the circus and stared at the sign from a new point of view. Then it passed along Coventry Street and stared at the sign from yet another point of view. Then it reached Shaftesbury Avenue and stared again. Then it returned to its original station. It was the figure of Edward Henry Machin, savouring the glorious electric sign of which he had dreamed. He lit a cigarette and thought of Seven Sacks, gazing at the name of Seven Sacks, in fire on the facade of a Broadway theatre in New York. Was not this London phenomenon at least as fine? He considered it was. The Regent Theatre existed. There it stood. What a name for a theatre! Its windows were all illuminated. Its entrance ramps bathed the pavement in light, and in this radiant stood the commissionaires in their military pride and their new uniforms. A line of waiting automobiles began a couple of yards to the north of the main doors and continued round all sorts of dark corners and up all manner of back streets towards Golden Square itself. Maria had had the automobiles counted and had told him the number, but such was Edward Henry's condition that he had forgotten. A row of boards reared on the pavement against the walls of the façade said, stalls full, private boxes full, dress circle full, upper circle full, pit full, gallery full. And attached to the ironwork of the glazed entrance canopy was a long board which gave the same information, in terser form, house full. The Regent had indeed been obliged to refuse quite a lot of money on its opening night. After all, the inauguration of a new theatre was something even in London. Important personages had actually begged the privilege of buying seats at normal prices and had been refused. Unimportant personages, such of those who boast in the universe that they had never missed a first night in the West End for twenty, thirty, or even fifty years, had tried to buy seats at abnormal prices and had failed, which was in itself a tragedy. Edward Henry, at the final moment, had yielded his wife's stall to the instances of a Minister of the Crown, and at Lady Waldo's urgent request had put her into Lady Waldo's private landowner's box, where also was Miss Elsie April, who had already had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Maychin. Edward Henry's first night was an event of magnitude, and he alone was responsible for it. His volition alone had brought into being that grand edifice, whose light yellow walls now gleamed in nocturnal mystery under the shimmer of countless electric bulbs. There goes pretty nigh forty thousand pounds of my money, he reflected excitedly, and he reflected, After all, I'm somebody. Then he glanced down Lower Regent Street and saw Sir John Pilgrim's much larger theatre now sublet to a tenant who was also lavish with displays of radiance, and he reflected that on first nights Sir John Pilgrim, in addition to doing all that he himself had done, would hold the great role on the stage throughout the evening, and he admired the astounding dazzling energy of such a being, and admitted, ungrudgingly, He's somebody too. I wonder what part of the world he's illuminating just now. Edward Henry did not deny to his soul that he was extremely nervous. He would not and could not face even the bare possibility that the first play presented at the new theatre might be a failure. He had meant to witness the production incognito among the crowd in the pit or in the gallery. But after visiting the pit, a few moments before the curtain went up, he had been appalled by the hard-hearted levity of the pit's remarks on things in general. The pit did not seem to be in any way chastened or softened by the fact that a fortune, that reputations, that careers were at stake. He had fled from the packed pit. As for the gallery, he decided that he had already had enough of the gallery. He had wandered about corridors and to and fro in his own room and in the wings, and even in the basement, as nervous as a lost cat or an author, and as self-conscious as a criminal, who knows himself to be on the edge of discovery. It was a fact that he could not look people in the eyes. The reception of the first act had been fairly amiable, and he had suffered horribly as he listened for the applause. Catching sight of Carlo Trent in the distance of a passage, he had positively run away from Carlo Trent. The first entract had seemed to last for about three months. Its nightmarish length had driven him almost to lunacy. The feel of the second act, so far as it mystically communicated itself to him in his place of concealment, had been better. And at the second fall of the curtain the applause had been enthusiastic. Yes, enthusiastic. Curiously, it was the revulsion caused by this new birth of hope, but while the third act was being played, had driven him out of the theatre. His wild hope needed his own. His breast had to expand in the boundless prairie of Piccadilly Circus. His legs had to walk. His arms had to swing. Now he crossed the circus again to his own pavement, and gazed like a stranger at his own posters. On several of them, encircled in a scarlet ring, was the sole name of Rose Euclid, impressive, and smaller, but above it, the legend E. H. Machin, sole proprietor. He asked himself impartially, as his eyes uneasily left the poster and slipped round the circus, deserted safe for a few sinister and idle figures at that hour. Should I have sent that interview to the papers or shouldn't I? I wonder. I expect some folks would say that on the whole I've been rather hard on Rose since I first met her. Anyhow, she's speaking up all right to-night. He laughed shortly. A news-boy floated up from the circus, bearing a poster with the name of Isabelle Joy on it in large letters. He thought, big-blood to Isabelle Joy. He did not care a fig for Isabelle Joy's competition now. And then a small door opened in the wall close by, and an elegant cloaked woman came out onto the pavement. The door was the private door leading to the private box of Lord Waldo, owner of the ground upon which the regent theatre was built. The woman, he recognized with confusion as Elsie April, whom he had not seen alone since the azure society's night. What are you doing out here, Mr. Macien? She greeted him with pleasant composure. I'm thinking, said he. It's going splendidly, she remarked. Really, I'm just running round to the stage door to meet dear Rose as she comes off. What a delightful woman your wife is! So pretty and so sensible! She disappeared round the corner before he could compose a suitable husband's reply to this laudation of a wife. Then the commissioners at the entrance seemed to start into life, and then suddenly several preoccupied men strode rapidly out of the theatre buttoning their coats and vanished phantom-like critics on their way to destruction. The performance must be finishing. Hastily he followed in the direction taken by Elsie April. Five. He was in the wings on the prompt side. Close by stood the prompter, an untidy youth with imperfections of teeth, clutching hard at the red-scored manuscript of the Orient Pearl. Sundry players of various stellar degrees were posed around in the opulent costumes designed by Saracen Givington, A.R.A. Miss Lindop was in the background ecstatically happy, her cheeks a race-course of tears. Far off, in the centre of the stage, alone, stood Rose Euclid, gorgeous in green and silver, bowing and bowing and bowing, bowing before the storm of approval and acclamation that swept from the auditorium across the footlights. With a sound like that of tearing silk or of a gigantic contralto mosquito, the curtain swished down and swished up and swished down again. Bocays flew on to the stage from the auditorium, a custom newly imported from the United States by Miss Euclid, and encouraged by her, though contrary to the lofty cannons of London taste. The actress already held one huge trophy, shaped as a crown, to her breast. She hesitated, and then ran to the wings and caught Edward Henry by the wrist impulsively, madly. They shook hands in an ecstasy. It was as though they recognized in one another a fundamental and glorious worth. It was as though no words could ever express the depth of appreciation, affection and admiration which each intensely felt for the other. It was as though this moment were the final consecration of twin lives, whose long, loyal comradeship had never been clouded by the faintest breath of mutual suspicion. Rose Euclid was still the unparalleled star, the image of grace and beauty and dominance upon the stage, and yet quite clearly Edward Henry saw close to his the wrinkled, damaged, dormant face and thin neck of an old woman, and it made no difference. Rose cried a strained voice, and Rose Euclid wrenched herself from him, and tumbled with half a sob into the clasping arms of L.C. April. You've saved the intellectual theatre for London, my boy! That's what you've done! Mario was now gripping his hand, and Edward Henry was convinced that he had. The strident vigor of the applause showed no diminution, and through the thick heavy rain of it could be heard the monotonous, insistent detonations of one syllable. And then another syllable was added. Speech, speech, speech, speech! Mechanically, Edward Henry lit a cigarette. He had no consciousness of doing so. Where is Trent? people were asking. Carlo Trent appeared up a staircase at the back of the stage. You've got to go on, said Mario. Now, put yourself together. The great beast is calling for you. Say a few words. Carlo Trent in his turn seized the hand of Edward Henry, and it was for all the world as though he was seizing the hand of an intellectual and poetic equal and rugged. Come now! Mr. Mario, beaming, admonished him, and then pushed. What must I say? Stammered Carlo, whatever comes into your head. All right, I'll say something. A man in a dirty white apron drew back the heavy mass of the curtain about eighteen inches, and Carlo Trent stepping forward, the glare of the footlight suddenly lit his white face. The applause, now multiplied fivefold, and become deafening, seemed to beat him back against the curtain. His lips worked. He did not bow. Come back, you fool, whispered Mario. And Carlo Trent stepped back into safe shelter. Why didn't you say something? I couldn't, murmured weakly, the greatest dramatic poet in the world, and began to cry. Speech, speech, speech, speech. Here, said Edward Henry gruffly, Get out of my way. I'll settle him. Get out of my way. And he riddled Carlo Trent with a fusilade of savagely scornful glances. The man in the apron obediently drew back the curtain again, and the next second Edward Henry was facing an auditorium crowded with his patrons. Everybody was standing up, chiefly in the aisles, and crowded at the entrances, and quite half the people were waving, and quite a quarter of them were shouting. He bowed several times. An age elapsed. His ears were stunned. But it seemed to him that his brain was working with marvellous perfection. He perceived that he had been utterly wrong about the Orient Pearl, and that all his advisors had been splendidly right. He had failed to catch its charm and to feel its power. But this audience, this magnificent, representative audience, drawn from London in the brilliant height of the season, had not failed. It occurred to him to raise his hand. And as he raised his hand, it occurred to him that his hand held a lighted cigarette. A magic hush fell upon the magnificent audience, which owned all that endless line of automobiles outside. Edward Henry in the hush took a pull at his cigarette. Ladies and gentlemen, he said, pitching his voice well, for municipal politics had made him a practised public speaker. I congratulate you. This evening you have succeeded. There was a roar, confused, mirthful, humorously protesting. He distinctly heard a man in the front row of the stalls say, Well, for sure, Nerve! And then go off into a peel of laughter. He smiled and retired. Maria took charge of him. You merit the entire confectioner's shop! explained Maria, aghast, admiring, triumphant. Now, Edward Henry had no intention of meriting cake. He had merely followed in speech the secret train of his thought. But he saw that he had treated a West End audience as a West End audience had never before been treated, and that his audacity had conquered. Hence he determined not to refuse the cake. Didn't I tell you I'd settle them? Said he. The band played God Save the King. Six. One hour later, in the double-bedded chamber of the majestic, as his wife lay in bed, and he was methodically folding up a creased white tie, and inspecting his chin in the mirror, he felt that he was touching again, after an immeasurable interval, the rot-bottom of reality. Nearly, even when he could only see her face, and that in a mirror, was the most real phenomenon in his existence, and she possessed the strange faculty of dispelling all unreality round about her. Well, he said, how did you get on in the box? Oh! she replied. I got on very well with the Waldo woman. She's one of our sort. But I'm not so set up with your L. C. April. Dashed this collar. Nearly continued. And I can tell you another thing. I don't envy a Mr. Rollo Ristle. What's Ristle got to do with it? She means to marry him. L. C. April means to marry Ristle. He was in and out of the box all night. It was as plain as a pike-staff. What's amiss with my L. C. April? Edward Henry demanded. She's a thought too pleasant for my taste. Answered nearly. Astonishing how pleasantness is regarded with suspicion in the five towns. Even by women who can at a pinch be angels. Seven Aston, during the brief night, he gazed sleepily at the vague next bed and mused upon the extraordinaryness of women's consciences. His wife slept like an innocent. She always did. It was as though she gently expired every evening and returned gloriously to life every morning. The sunshine hours between three and seven were very long to him, but it was indisputable that he did not hear the clock strike six, which was at any rate proof of a little sleep. A little sleep to the good. At five minutes past seven, he thought he heard a faint rustling in the corridor, and he rose and tipped out to the door and opened it. Yes, the majestic had its good qualities. He had ordered that all the London morning daily papers should be laid at his door as early as possible, and there the pile was, somewhat damp and as fresh as fruit with a slight odor of ink. He took it in. His heart was beating as he climbed back into bed with it and arranged pillows so that he could sit up and unfolded the first paper. Nelly had not stirred. Once again he was disappointed in the prominence given by the powerful London press to his London enterprise. In the first newspaper, a very important one, he positively could not find any criticism of the region's first night. It was nearly a page of the offensive Isabel Joy, who was now appealing through the newspapers to the President of the United States. Isabel had been christened at the World Circular, and the special correspondence of the entire earth were gathered about her carpeted cell. Hope still remained that she would reach London within the hundred days. An unknown adherent to the cause for which she suffered had promised to give ten thousand pounds to that cause if she did so. Further, she was receiving over sixty proposals of marriage a day, and so on and so on. Most of this he gathered in an instant from the headlines alone. Nauseating! Another annoying item in the paper was a column and a half given to the foundation stone laying of the first New Thought Church in Dean Street, Soho, about a couple of hundred yards from its original site. He hated the first New Thought Church, as one always hates that to which one has done an injury. Then he found what he was searching for. Regent Theatre, production of poetical drama at London's latest playhouse. After all, it was well situated in the paper on quite an important page, and there was over a column of it. But in his know as excitation his eyes had missed it. His eyes are now reddit. Over half of it was given up to a discussion of the Don Juan legend and the significance of the baronic character of Hady, obviously written before the performance. A description of the plot occupied most of the rest, and a reference to the acting ended it. Miss Rose Euclid, in the trying and occasional beautiful part of Hady, was all that her admirers could have wished. Miss Cunningham distinguished herself by her diction and bearing in the small part of The Messenger. The final words were, The reception was quite favourable. Quite favourable indeed! Edward Henry had a chill. Good heavens was not the reception ecstatically, madly, foolishly enthusiastic. Why, he explained within, I never saw such a reception. It was true, but then he had never seen any other first night. He was shocked, as well as chilled, and for this reason, for weeks past all the newspapers in their dramatic gossip had contained highly sympathetic references to his enterprise. According to the paragraphs he was a wondrous man, and the theatre was a wondrous house, the best of all possible theatres, and Carlo Trent was a great writer, and Rose Euclid exactly as marvellous as she had been a quarter of a century before, and the prospects of intellectual poetic drama in London so favourable as to amount to a certainty of success. In those columns of dramatic gossip, there was no flaw in the theatrical world. In those columns of dramatic gossip, no piece ever failed, though sometimes a piece was withdrawn regretfully and against the wishes of the public to make room for another piece. In those columns of dramatic gossip, theatrical managers, actors, and especially actresses, and even authors were benefactors of society, and therefore they were treated with the deference, the gentleness, the heartfelt sympathy, which benefactors of society merit and ought to receive. The tone of the criticism of the first night was different. It was subtly, not crudely different, but different it was. The next newspaper said that the play was bad, and the audience indulgent. It was very severe on Carlo Trent and very kind to the players whom it regarded as good men and women in adversity, with particular laudations for Miss Rose Euclid and the messenger. The next newspaper said that the play was a masterpiece, and would be so hailed in any country but England. England, however... Unfortunately, this was a newspaper whose political opinions Edward Henry despised. The next newspaper praised everything and everybody, and called the reception tumultuously enthusiastic. And Edward Henry felt as though somebody mistaking his face for a slice of toast had spread butter all over it. Even the paper's parting assurance that the future of the higher drama in London was now safe beyond question, did not remove this delusion of butter. The two following newspapers were more sketchy or descriptive, and referred at some length to Edward Henry's own speech, with a kind of sub-hint that Edward Henry had better mind what he was about. Three illustrated papers had photographs of scenes and figures, but nothing important in the matter of criticism. The rest were neither one thing nor the other, as they say in the Five Towns. On the whole, an inscrutable press, a disconcerting, a startling, an appetite destroying, but not a hopeless press. The general impression which he had gathered from his perusals was that the author was a pretentious dullard, an absolute criminal, a genius, that the actors and actresses were all splendid and worked hard, though conceivably one or two of them had been set impossible tasks, to wit tasks unsuited to their personalities, that he himself was a Napoleon, a Temerarius individual, an incomprehensible fellow, and that the future of the intellectual poetic drama in London was not a topic of burning actuality. He remembered, sadly, the superlative laden descriptions in those same newspapers of the theatre itself, a week or two back, the unique theatre in which the occupant of every seat had a complete and uninterrupted view of the whole of the proscenium opening. Surely that fact alone ought to have ensured proper treatment for him. Then Nelly woke up and saw the scattered newspapers. Well, she asked, what did they say? Oh, he replied lightly with a laugh, just about what you'd expect. Of course you know what a first night audience always is, too generous, and ours was particularly. Miss April saw to that she had the azure society behind her, and she was determined to help Rose Euclid. However, I should say that it was all right. I should say that it was quite all right. I told you it was a gamble, you know. When Nelly, dressing, said that she considered she ought to go back home that day, he offered no objection. Indeed, he rather wanted her to go. Not that he had a desire to spend the whole of his time at the theatre, unhampered by provincial women in London. On the contrary, he was aware of a most definite desire not to go to the theatre. He lay in bed, and watched, with careless curiosity, the rapid processes of Nelly's toilette. He had his breakfast on the dressing table, for he was not at Wilkins, neither at the Grand Babylon. Then he helped her to pack, and finally he accompanied her to Euston, where she kissed him with affection at common sense, and caught the twelve-five. He was relieved that nobody from the five towns happened to be going down by that train. As he turned away from the moving carriage, the evening papers had just arrived at the bookstore's. He bought the four chief-organs, one green, one yellowish, one white, one pink, and scanned them self-consciously on the platform. The white-organ had a good heading. Rebirth of the intellectual drama in London. What a provincial has done. Opinions of leading men. Two columns altogether. There was, however, little in the two columns. The leading men had practiced a sagacious caution. They, like the press as a whole, were obviously waiting to see which way the great elephantine public would jump. When the enormous animal had jumped, they would all explain, what did I tell you? The other critiques were colourless. At the end of the green critique occurred the following sentence. It is only fair to state, nevertheless, that the play was favourably received by an apparently enthusiastic audience. Nevertheless, apparently, Edward Henry turned the page to the theatrical advertisements. Region Theatre. Twenty Yards from Piccadilly Circus. The Audient Pearl by Carlo Trent. Miss Rose Euclid. Every evening at 8.30. Matine's every Wednesday and Saturday at 2.30. Box office open 10 to 10. Sol Brabriota. E. H. Machin. Unreal. Fantastic. Was this he, Edward Henry? Could it be his mother's son? Still. Matine's every Wednesday and Saturday. Every Wednesday and Saturday? That word implied and necessitated a long run. Anyhow, a run extending over months. That word comforted him. Though he knew, as well as you do, that Mr. Marrier had composed the advertisement, and that he himself was paying for it, he comforted him. He was just like a child. Eight. I say, Cunningham's made a hit. Mr. Marrier almost shouted at him as he entered the managerial room at the regent. Cunningham? Who's Cunningham? Then he remembered. She was the girl who played the messenger. She had only three words to say, and to say them over and over again, and she had made a hit. Seen the notices? Asked Marrier. Yes, what of them? Oh, well. Marrier drolled. What would you expect? That's just what I said, observed Edward Henry. You did, did you? Mr. Marrier exclaimed as if extremely interested by this corroboration of his views. Carlos Trent strolled in. He remarked that he happened to be just passing, but discussion of the situation was not carried very far. That evening the house was nearly full, except the pits and the gallery, which were nearly empty. Applause was perfunctory. How much? Edward Henry inquired of the box-office manager when figures were added together. Thirty-one pounds, two shillings. Of course, said Mr. Marrier, in the height of the London season with so many counter-attractions, besides, they've got to get used to the idea of it. Edward Henry did not turn pale, still he was aware that it cost him a trifle over sixty pounds to ring the curtain up at every performance, and this sum took no account of expenses of production nor of author's fees. The sum would have been higher, but he was calculating as rent of the theatre only the grand rent plus six percent on the total price of the building. What disgusted him was the duplicity of the first night audience, and he said to himself violently, I was right all the time, and I knew I was right, idiots, chumps. Of course I was right. On the third night, the house held twenty-seven pounds in six months. Naturally, said Mr. Marrier, in this hot weather, I never knew such a hot dune as the open air places that are doing us in the eye. In fact, I heard today that white city is packed. They simply can't bank their money quick enough. It was on that day that Edward Henry paid salaries. It appeared to him that he was providing half London with a livelihood, acting managers, stage managers, assistant ditto, property men, stagehands, electricians, promptors, call boys, box office staff, general staff, dressers, commissionaires, program girls, cleaners, actors, actresses, understudies, to say nothing of Rose Euclid at a purely nominal salary of a hundred pounds a week. The tenants of the bars were grumbling, but happily he was getting money from them. The following day was Saturday. It rained, a succession of thunderstorms. The morning and the evening performances produced together sixty-eight pounds. Well, said Mr. Marrier, in this kind of weather you can't expect people to come out, can you, besides this cursed weak-ending habit, which conclusions did not materially modify the harsh fact that Edward Henry was losing over thirty pounds a day, or at the rate of over ten thousand pounds a year. He spent Sunday between his hotel and his club, chiefly in reiterating to himself that Monday began a new week and that something would have to occur on Monday. Something did occur. Carlo Trent lounged into the office early. The man was forever being drawn to the theatre by an invisible but powerful elastic cord. The papers had a worse attack than ever of Isabelle Joy, for she had been convicted of a transgression in the Chicago Court of Law, but a tremendous lawyer from St. Louis had loomed over Chicago, and having examined the documents in the case was hopeful of getting the conviction quashed. He had discovered that in one and the same document Isabelle had been spelt Isabelle, and worse, Illinois had been deprived by a careless clerk of one of its ills. He was sure that by proving these grave irregularities in American Justice he could win an appeal. Edward Henry glanced up suddenly from the newspapers. He had been inspired. I say, Trent, he remarked without any warning or preparation. You're not looking at all well. I want to change myself. I have a good mind to take you for a sea voyage. Oh, grumble, Trent, I can't afford sea voyages. I can, said Edward Henry, and I shouldn't dream of letting it cost you a penny. I'm not a philanthropist, but I know as well as anybody that it will pay us theatrical managers to keep you in health. You're not going to take the play off, Trent demanded suspiciously. Certainly not, said Edward Henry. What sort of sea voyage? Well, what price is Atlantic? Been to New York? Neither have I. Let's go, just for the trip. It'll do us good. Don't mean it! murmured the greatest dramatic poet who had never voyaged further than the Isle of Wight. His eyeglass swung to and fro. Edward Henry feigned to resent this remark. Of course I mean it. Do you take me for a blooming gas bag? He rose. Maria! Then more loudly. Maria! Mr. Maria entered. Do you know anything about the savings to New York? Rather, said Mr. Maria, beaming. After all, he was a most precious aide. We may be able to arrange for a production in New York, said Edward Henry, to Carlo, mysteriously. Mr. Maria gazed at one and then the other, puzzled. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 OF THE REGENT This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE REGENT by Arnold Bennett read by Andy Minter Chapter 10 Isabelle 1 Throughout the voyage of the Lithuania from Liverpool to New York, Edward Henry, in common with some 2,000 other people on board, had the sensation of being hurried. He, who in a cab rides late to an important appointment, arrives with muscles fatigued by mentally aiding the horse to move the vehicle along. Thus were Edward Henry's muscles fatigued and the muscles of many others, but just as much more so as the Lithuania was bigger than a cab. For the Lithuania, having been seriously delayed in Liverpool, by men who were most ridiculously striking for the fantastic remuneration of one pound a week, was engaged on the business of making new records, and every passenger was personally determined that she should therein succeed, and despite very bad June weather towards the end, she did sail past the battery on a grand Monday morning with a new record to her credit. So far Edward Henry's plan was not miscarrying, but he had a very great deal to do, and very little time in which to do it, and whereas the muscles of the other passengers were relaxed as the ship drew to her birth, Edward Henry's muscles were only more tensely tightened. He had expected to see Mr Seven's axe on the key, for in response to his telegram from Queenstown, the illustrious actor author had sent him an agreeable wireless message in full Atlantic, the which had inspired Edward Henry to obtain news by Marconi, both from London and New York at much expense. From the east he had had daily information of the dwindling receipts at the Regent Theatre, and from the west daily information concerning Isabelle Joy. He had not, however, expected Mr Seven's axe to walk into the Lithuania's music saloon an hour before the ship touched the key. Nevertheless, this was what Mr Seven's axe did by the exercise of those mysterious powers wielded by the influential in democratic communities. And what are you doing here? Mr Seven's axe greeted Edward Henry with genealogy. Edward Henry lowered his voice. I'm throwing good money after bad, said he. The friendly grip of Mr Seven's axe's hand did him good, reassured him, and gave him courage. He was utterly tired of the voyage, and also of the poetical society of Carlo Trent, whose passage had cost him thirty pounds, considerable boredom, and some sick nursing during the final days and nights. A dramatic poet with an appetite was a full dose for Edward Henry, but a dramatic poet who lay on his back and moaned for nought but soda water and dry land, amounted to more than Edward Henry could conveniently swallow. He directed Mr Saxe's attention to the anguished and de-bile organism which had once been Carlo Trent, and Mr Saxe was so sympathetic that Carlo Trent began to adore him, and Edward Henry, to be somewhat disturbed in his previous estimate of Mr Saxe's common sense, but at a favourable moment Mr Saxe breathed humorously into Edward Henry's ear the question, What have you brought him out for? I've brought him out to lose him. As they pushed through the bustle of the enormous ship, and descended from the dizzy eminence of her boat-deck by lifts and ladders down to the level of the windy, sun-steeped rock of New York, Edward Henry said, Now, I want you to understand, Mr Saxe, that I haven't a minute to spare. I've just looked in for lunch. Going on to Chicago? She isn't at Chicago, is she? Demanded Edward Henry aghast, I thought she'd reach New York. Oh, Isabelle Joy. Oh, Isabelle's in New York, for sure enough. She's right here. They say she'll have to catch the Lithuania if she's going to get away with it. Get away with what? Well, the goods. The precious word reminded Edward Henry of an evening at Wilkins, and raised his spirits even higher. It was a word he loved. And I've got to catch the Lithuania, too, said he, but Trent doesn't know. And let me tell you she's going to do the quickest turnaround that any ship ever did. The purser assured me she'll leave at noon to-morrow, unless the world comes to an end in the meantime. Now, what about a hotel? You'll stay with me, naturally. But, Edward Henry protested, oh, yes, you will. I shall be delighted. But I must look after Trent. He'll stay with me, too, naturally. I live at the Stuyvesant Hotel, you know. On fifth. I have a pretty private suite there. I shall arrange a little supper for tonight. My automobile is here. Is it possible that I once saved your life and have forgotten all about it? Edward Henry exclaimed, What do you treat everybody like this? We like to look after our friends, said Mr. Sacks, simply. In the terrific confusion of the key, where groups of passengers were mounted like watchdogs over hilks of baggage, Mr. Sacks stood continually between the travellers and the administrative rigor and official incredulity of a proud republic. And in the minimum of time, the fine trunk of Edward Henry and the modest packages of the poet were on the roof of Mr. Sacks's vast car. The three men were inside and the car was leaping somewhat in the manner of a motorboat at full speed over the cobbles of a wide medieval street. Quick, thought Edward Henry, I haven't a minute to lose. His prayer reached the chauffeur. Conversation was difficult. Carlo Trent groaned. Presently they rolled less perilously upon Asphalt, though the equipage still lurched. Edward Henry was forever bending his head towards the window aperture in order to glimpse the roofs of the buildings and never seeing the roofs. Now we're on fifth, said Mr. Sacks, after a fearful lurch with pride. Vistas of flags, high-cordices, crowded pavements, marble, jewellery beyond glass, the whole scene through a roaring phantasmagoria of competing and menacing vehicles. And Edward Henry thought, this is my sort of place. The jolting recommenced. Carlo Trent rebounded limply, groaning between cushions and upholstery. Edward Henry tried to pretend that he was not frightened. Then there was a shock as of the concussion of two equally unyielding natures. A pane of glass in Mr. Seven Sacks's limousine flew to fragments and the car stopped. I expect that's a spring gone. Observe, Mr. Sacks, with tranquillity. Will happen, you know, sometimes. Everybody got out. Mr. Sacks's presumption was correct. One of the back wheels had failed to leap over a hole in Fifth Avenue, some eighteen inches deep and two feet long. What is that hole? asked Edward Henry. Well, said Mr. Sacks, it's just a hole. We'd been a transmitter to a taxi. He gave calm orders to his chauffeur. Four empty taxes passed down the sunny magnificence of Fifth Avenue and ignored Mr. Sacks's urgent waving. The fifth stopped. The baggage was strapped and tied to it, which process occupied much time. Edward Henry, fuming against delay, gazed round. A nonchalant policeman on a superb horse occupied the middle of the road. Tram cars passed continually across the street in front of his caracoling horse, dividing a route for themselves in the wild ocean of traffic as Moses cut into the Red Sea. At intervals a knot of persons, intimidated and yet daring, would assay the voyage from one pavement to the opposite pavement. There was no halfway refuge for these adventurers as in decrepit London. Some apparently arrived, others seemed to disappear forever in the feverish welter of confused motion and were never heard of again. The policeman, easily accommodating himself to the caracolings of his mount, gazed absently at Edward Henry. And Edward Henry gazed first at the policeman, and then at the high decorated grandeur of the buildings, and then at the Assyrian taxi into which Mr. Sacks was now ingeniously inserting Carlo Trent. He thought, No mistake, this street is alive, but what cemeteries they must have! He followed Carlo with minute precautions into the interior of the taxi. And then came the supremely delicate operation, that of introducing a third person into the same vehicle. It was accomplished, three chins and six knees fraternised in close intimacy, but the door was not shut. Wheezing, snorting, shaking, complaining, the taxi drew slowly away from Mr. Sacks's luxurious automobile, and left it for lawn to its chauffeur. Mr. Sacks, imperturbably smiled, I have two other automobiles, said Mr. Sacks. In some sixty seconds the taxi stopped in front of the tremendous glass awning of the Stuyvesant. The baggage was unstrapped, the passengers were extricated one by one from the cell, and Edward Henry saw Mr. Sacks give two separate dollar bills to the driver. My Jove! he murmured. Said Mr. Sacks politely. Nothing, said Edward Henry. They walked into the hotel, and passed through a long succession of corridors and vast public rooms, surging with well-dressed men and women. What's all this crowd for? asked Edward Henry. What crowd? asked Mr. Sacks, surprised. Edward Henry saw that he had blundered. I prefer the upper floors, remarked Mr. Sacks as they were being flung upwards in a gilded elevator and passing rapidly all numbers from one to fourteen. The elevator made an end of Carlo Trent's manhood. He collapsed. Mr. Sacks regarded him and then said, I think I'll get an extra room from Mr. Trent. He ought to go to bed. Edward Henry enthusiastically concurred. And stay there, said Edward Henry. Fail, Carlo Trent permitted himself to be put to bed. But therein he proved fractious. He was anxious about his linen. Mr. Sacks telephoned from the bedside, and the laundry-maid came. He was anxious about his best lounge suit. Mr. Sacks telephoned, and a valet came. Then he wanted a siphon of soda water, and Mr. Sacks telephoned, and a waiter came. Then it was a newspaper, he required. Mr. Sacks telephoned, and a page came. All these functionaries, together with two reporters, peopled Mr. Trent's bedroom more or less simultaneously. It was Edward Henry's bright notion to add to them a doctor, a doctor whom Mr. Sacks knew, a doctor who would perceive at once that bed was the only proper place for Carlo Trent. Now, said Edward Henry, when he and Mr. Sacks were participating in the private lunch, amid the splendours and the grim silent service of the latter's suite at the Stuyvesant. I have fully grasped the fact that I am in New York. It is one o'clock and after, and as soon as ever this meal is over, I have just got to find Isabelle Joy. You must understand that on this trip, New York, for me, is merely a town where Isabelle Joy happens to be. Well, replied Mr. Sacks, I reckon I can put you on to that. She's going to be photographed at two o'clock by our end-tools' files. I happen to know, because Trent's a particular friend of mine. A photographer, you say? Mr. Sacks controlled himself. Do you mean to say you have not heard of rent-to-all-smiles? Well, he's called man's photographer. He's never photographed a woman. Won't. At least wouldn't. But he's going to photograph Isabelle, till you may guess that he considers Isabelle some woman, eh? And how will that help me? inquired Edward Henry. Why, I'll take you up to rents. Mr. Sacks comforted him. It's close by, corner of thirty-ninth and five. Tell me, Edward Henry demanded with immense relief. She hasn't got herself arrested yet, has she? No, and she won't. Why not? The police have been put wise, said Mr. Sacks. Put wise? Yes, put wise. I say, said Edward Henry, but he did not say. The only half saw. As a matter of fact, said Mr. Sacks, Isabelle can't get away with the goods, unless she fixes the police to lock her up for a few hours, and she'll not succeed in that. Her hundred days are up in London next Sunday, so there'll be no time for her to be arrested and bailed out, either at Liverpool or Fishguard. And that's her only chance. I've seen Isabelle, and if you ask me, my opinion, is she's down and out. Never mind, said Edward Henry with glee. Ah, guess what you're after her for, said Mr. Seven Sacks, with an air of deep knowledge. The deuce you do? Yes, sir. And let me tell you, there dozens of them have been after her already, but she wouldn't. Nothing but tamed her. Never mind. Edward Henry smiled. Two. When Edward Henry stood by the side of Mr. Sacks in a doorway, half shielded by a portiere, and gazed unseen into the great studio of Mr. N. Tool's miles, he comprehended that he was indeed under powerful protection in New York. At the entrance on Fifth Avenue, he and Sacks had passed through a small crowd of assorted men, chiefly young, whom Sacks had greeted in the mass with the smiling words, Well, boys! Other men were within. Still another went up with them in the elevator, but no further. They were reporters of the entire world's press, to each of whom Isabel Joy had been specially assigned. They were waiting. They would wait. Mr. N. Tool smiles, having been warned by telephone of the visit of his beloved friend Seven Sacks. Mr. Sacks and his English protégé had been received at smiles out a door, by a clerk who knew exactly what to do with them, and did it. Is she here? Mr. Sacks had murmured. Yup, the clerk had negligently replied. And now Edward Henry beheld the object of his pilgrimage. Her, whose personality, portrait, and adventures had been filling the newspapers of two hemispheres for three weeks past. She was not realistically like her portraits. She was a little thin, pale, obviously nervous woman of any age from 35 to 50, with fair untidy hair, and pale, grey-blue eyes that showed the dreamer, the idealist, and the harsh fanatic. She looked as though a moderate breeze would have overthrown her, but she also looked to the enlightened observer, as though she would recoil before no cruelty, and no suffering in pursuit of her vision. The blind, dreaming force behind her apparent frailty would strike terror into the hearts of any man intelligent enough to understand it. Edward Henry had an inward chudder. Great Scott, he reflected, I shouldn't like to be ill and have Isabel for a nurse. And his mind at once flew to Nelly, and then to L. C. April. And so she's going to marry Ryssel, he reflected, and could scarcely believe it. Then he violently wrenched his mind back to the immediate objective. He wondered why Isabel Joy should wear a bowler hat and a mustard-colored jacket that resembled a sporting man's overcoat, and why these garments suited her. With a whip in her hand, she could have sat for a jockey, and yet she was a woman and very feminine, and probably old enough to be L. C. April's mother. A disconcerting world, he thought. The man's photographer, as he was described in copper on Fifth Avenue and in gold on his own doors, was a big, loosely articulated male who lured over the trifle Isabel like a cloud over a sheep in a great field. Edward Henry could only see his broad-bending back, as he posed in athletic attitudes behind the camera. Suddenly, Rental smiles dashed to a switch, and Isabel's wistful face was transformed into that of a drowned corpse into a dreadful harmony of greens and purples. Now, said Rental smiles in a deep voice that was like a rich ungwant. We'll try again. We'll just play around that spot. Look into my eyes. Now out my eyes, my dear woman, into them. Just a little more challenge. A little more. That's it. Don't wink for the land's sake. Now he seized a bulb at the end of a tube, and slowly squeezed. Squeezed it tragically and remorselessly, twisting himself as if suffering in sympathy with the bulb, and then, in a wide sweeping gesture, he flung the bulb onto the top of the camera and ejaculated, Ha! Edward Henry thought, I would give ten pounds to see Rental smiles photographs of John Pilgrim. But the next instant the forgotten sensation of hurry was upon him once more. Quick, quick, Rental smiles! Edward Henry's scorching desire was to get done and leave New York. Now, Mrs. Isabel, Mr. Smiles proceeded exasperatingly deliberate. Do you know, I feel kind of guilty. I've got a little palm out in Westchester County, and I'm making up a little English pathway of the garden with a gate at the end. I woke up this morning and began to think about the quaint English form of that gate, and just how I would have it. He raised a finger. But I ought to have been thinking about you. I ought to have been saying to myself, today I have to photograph Isabel Joy and trying to understand, in meditation, the secrets of your personality. I'm sorry. Now, don't talk. Keep like that. Move your head around. Go on. Go on. Move it. Don't be afraid. This place belongs to you. It's yours. Whatever you do, we've got people here who straighten up after you. Do you know why I've made money? I've made money so that I can take you this afternoon and tell a $200 client to go to the deuce. That's why I've made money. Put your back against the chair like an English woman. That's it. Oh, don't talk, I tell you. Now look joyful, hang it. Look joyful. No, no, joy isn't a contortion. There's something deep right down there, there, there. The lubricant voice rolled on, while Rental Smiles manipulated the camera. He clasped the bulb again, and again threw it dramatically away. I'm through, he said. Don't expect anything very grand, Mrs. Isabel. What I've been trying to do this afternoon is my interpretation of you as I've studied your personality in your speeches. If I believed wholly in your cause, or if I wholly disbelieved in it, my work would not have been good. Any value that it has will be due to the sympathetic impartiality of my spiritual attitude. Although, he menaced her with the license familiarity of a philosopher, although, lady, I must say I felt you were working against me all the time. This way!" Edward Henry, recalling the compelling simplicity of the London photographer at Wilkins, thought, how profoundly they understand photography in America. Isabel Joy rose and glanced at the watch in her bracelet, then followed the direction of the male hand, and vanished. Rental Smiles turned instantly to the other doorway. "'How do, Rint?' said Seven Sacks, coming forward. "'Hallo, Seven!' Mr. Rental's smile winked. "'This is my good friend Alderman Meechin, the theatre manager from London. Glad to meet you, sir.' "'She's not gone, has she?' asked Sacks hurriedly. "'No, my housekeeper wanted to talk to her. Come along.' And in the waiting-room, full of permanent examples of the results of Mr. Rental Smiles's spiritual attitude towards his fellow men, Edward Henry was presented to Isabel Joy. The next instant the two men and the housekeeper had unobtrusively retired, and he was alone with his objective. In truth, Seven Sacks was a notable organizer. Three. She was sitting down in a cosy corner, her feet on a footstool, and she seemed a negligible physical quantity as he stood in front of her. This was she who had worsted the entire judicial and police system of Chicago, who spoke Pentecostal tongues, who had circled the globe, and held enthralled, so journalists computed, more than a quarter of a million of the inhabitants of Marseille, Athens, Portside, Candy, Calcutta, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Hawaii, San Francisco, Salt Lake City, Denver, Chicago, and lastly New York. This was she. I understand we're going home on the same ship, he was saying. She looked up at him almost appealingly. "'You won't see anything of me, though,' she said. "'Why not?' "'Tell me,' said she, not answering his question. "'What do they say of me, really, in England? I don't mean the newspapers. For instance, well, there's your society. Do you know it?' He nodded. "'Tell me,' she repeated. He related the episode of the telegram at the private first performance of the Orient Pearl. She burst out in the torrent to a relevant protest. The New York police have not treated me right. It would have cost them nothing to arrest me and let me go, but they wouldn't. "'Every man in the force, you hear me? Every man has had strict orders to leave me unblessed. It seems they resent my dealings with the police in Chicago, where I brought about the dismissal of four officers, so they say. And so I am to be boycotted in this manner. "'Is that argument, Mr. Machen? Tell me. You're a man, but, honestly, is it argument? Why, it's just as mean and despicable as brute force.' "'I agree with you,' said Edward Henry, softly. "'Do they really think it will harm the militant cause? Do they really think so? No. It will only harm me. I made a mistake in tactics. I trusted, fool, to the chivalry of the United States. I might have been arrested in a dozen cities, but I on purpose reserved my last two arrests for Chicago and New York, for the sake of the superior advertisement. You see? I never dreamt. Now it's too late. I'm defeated. I shall just arrive in London on the hundredth day. I shall have made speeches at all the meetings, but I shall be short of one arrest, and the ten thousand pounds will be lost to the cause. The militants here, such as they are, are as disgusted as I am, but they've scorned me. And are they not right? Are they not right? There should be no quarter for the banquished.' "'Miss Joy,' said Edward Henry, I've come over from London specially to see you. I want to make up the loss of that ten thousand pounds so far as I can. I'll explain at once. I'm running a poetical play of the highest merit, called The Orient Pearl, at my new theatre in Piccadilly Circus. If you will undertake a small part in it, a part of three words only, I'll pay you a record salary, sixty six pounds, thirteen and fourpence a word, two hundred pounds a week. Isabel Joy jumped up. Are you another of them then?" She muttered, "'I did think from the look of you that you would know a gentlewoman when you met one. Did you imagine for the thousandth part of one second that I should stoop?' "'Stoop!' exclaimed Edward Henry. My theatre is not a music-hall. You want to make it into one?" She stopped him. "'Good day to you,' she said. I must face those journalists again, I suppose. Well, even they. I came alone in order to avoid them, but it was hopeless. Besides, is it my duty to avoid them, after all?' It was while passing through the door that she ussered the last words. "'Where is she?' Seven sacks inquired, entering. "'Flead,' said Edward Henry. "'Everything all right?' "'Quite.' Mr. Rental's smiles came in.' "'Mr. Smiles,' said Edward Henry. "'Did you ever photograph Sir John Pilgrim?' "'I did. On his last visit to New York.' "'Here you are,' he pointed to his rendering of Sir John. "'What did you think of him?' "'A great actor, but a moundy-bank, sir.' During the remainder of the afternoon Edward Henry saw the hole of New York with bits of the broncs and yonkers in the distance from Seven sacks' second automobile. In his third automobile he went to the theatre and saw Seven sacks act to a house of over two thousand dollars, and lastly he attended a supper and made a speech. But he insisted upon passing the remainder of the night on the Lithuania. In the morning Isabelle Joy came on board early, and irrevocably disappeared into her birth. And from that moment Edward Henry spent the whole secret force of his individuality in fervently desiring the Lithuania to start. At two o'clock, two hours late, she did start. Edward Henry's farewells to the admirable and hospitable Mr. Sacks were somewhat absent-minded, for already his heart was in London. But he had sufficient presence of mind to make certain final arrangements. Keep him at least a week, said Edward Henry to Seven sacks, and I shall be your debtor for ever and ever. He meant Carlo Trent, still bedridden. As from the receding ship he gazed in abstraction at the gigantic, inconvenient word, common to three languages, which is the first thing seen by the arriving and the last thing seen by the departing visitor, he meditated. The dearness of living in the United States has certainly been exaggerated. For his total expenses, beyond the confines of the key, amounted to one cent, disbursed to buy an evening paper which had contained a brief interview with himself concerning the future of the intellectual drama in England. He had told the pressman that the Orient Pearl would run a hundred nights. Save for putting the Orient Girl instead of the Orient Pearl, and two hundred nights instead of one hundred nights, the interview was tolerably accurate. Four. Two entire interminable days of the voyage elapsed, before Edward Henry was clever enough to encounter Isabel Joy, the most notorious and the least visible person in the ship. He remembered that she had said, You won't see anything of me. It was easy to ascertain the number of her state room, a double berth which she shared with nobody, but it was less easy to find out whether she ever left it, and if so, at what time of day? He could not mount guard in the Long Corridor, and the stewardesses on the Lithuania were mature, experienced, and uncommunicative women, their sole weakness being an occasional tendency to imagine that they, and not the captain, were in supreme charge of the steamer. However, Edward Henry did at last achieve his desire, and on the third morning, at a little before six o'clock, he met a muffled Isabel Joy on the D-deck. The D-deck was wet, having just been swabbed, and a boat, chosen for that dawn's boat-drill, ascended past them on its way from sea-level to the dizzy boat-deck above. On the other side of an iron barrier, large crowds of early rising third-class passengers were standing and talking and staring at the oblong slit of sea, which was the only prospect offered by the D-deck. It was the first time that Edward Henry aboard had set eyes on a steerage passenger. With all the conceit natural to the occupant of a costly stateroom, he had unconsciously assumed that he and his like had sole possession of the ship. Isabel responded to his greeting in a very natural way. The sharp freshness of the summer morning at sea had its tonic effect on both of them, and as for Edward Henry, he lunged and plunged at once into the subject which alone preoccupied and exasperated him. She did not seem to resent it. You'd have the satisfaction of helping on a thing that all your friends say ought to be helped, he argued. Nobody but you can do it. Without you there'll be a frost. You would make a lot of money, which you could spend in helping on things of your own. And surely it isn't the publicity that you're afraid of? No, she agreed, and not afraid of publicity. Her pale, grey-blue eyes shone as they regarded the secret dream that for her hung always unseen in the air, and she had a strange wistful, fragile, feminine mien in her mannish costume. Well, then, but can't you see it humiliating? cried she, as if interested in the argument. It's not humiliating to do something that you can do well. I know you can do it well, and get a large salary for it, and make the success of a big enterprise by it. If you knew the play, I do know the play. She said, we'd lots of a reddit in manuscript long ago. Edward Henry was somewhat dashed by this information. Well, what do you think of it? I think it's just splendid, she said, with enthusiasm. And will it be any worse a play because you act a small part in it? No, she said, shortly. I expect you think it's a play that people ought to go and see, don't you? I do, Mr Socrates, she admitted. He wondered what she could mean, but continued, what does it matter what it is that brings the audience into the theatre so long as they get there and have to listen? She sighed. It's no use discussing with you, she murmured. You're too simple for this world. I dare say you're honest enough. In fact, I think you are. But there are so many things you don't understand. You're evidently incapable of understanding them. Thanks, he replied, and paused to recover his self-possession. But let's get right down to business now. If you'll appear in this play, I'll not merely give you two hundred pounds a week, but I'll explain to you how to get arrested and still arrive in Triumph in London before midnight on Sunday. She recoiled a step and raised her eyes. How? She demanded, as with the pistol. Ah, he said, that's just it. How? Will you promise? I thought of everything, she said musingly. If the last day was any day but Sunday, I could get arrested on landing and get bailed out and still be in London before night. But on Sunday? No. So you needn't talk like that. Still, he said, it can be done. How? She demanded again. Will you sign a contract with me, if I tell you? Think of what your reception in London will be if you win, after all. Just think. Those pale eyes gleamed, for Isabelle Joy had tasted the noisy flattery of sympathetic and of adverse crowds, and her being hungered for it again, the desire of it, had become part of her nature. She walked away, her hands in the pocket of her ulster, and returned. What is your scheme? Your sign? Yes, if it works. I can trust you. The little woman of Forty also blazed up. You can refrain from insulting me by darting my word. Said she. Sorry, sorry. He apologised. Five That same evening, in the colossal, many-table dining-room of the Lithuania, Edward Henry sat as usual to the left of the purse's empty chair at the purse's table, where were about a dozen other men. A page brought him a marconi-gram. He opened it, and read the single word, Nineteen. It was the amount of the previous evening's receipts at the regent, in pounds. He was now losing something like forty pounds a night, without counting the expenses of the present excursion. The band began to play as the soup was served, and the ship rolled politely, gently, but nevertheless unmistakably, accomplishing one complete roll to about sixteen bars of the music. Then the entire saloon was suddenly excited. Isabelle Joy had entered. She was in the gallery, near the orchestra, at a small table alone. Everybody became aware of the fact in an instant, and scores of necks on the lower floor were twisted to glimpse the celebrity on the upper. It was remarked that she wore a magnificent evening dress. One subject of conversation now occupied all the tables. And it was fully occupying the purse's table, when the purse, generally a little late owing to the arduousness of his situation on the ship, entered and sat down. Now the purse was a northerner, from Durham, a delightful companion in his lighter moods, but dour, and with a high conception of authority, and of the intelligence of dogs. He would relay that when he and his wife wanted to keep a secret from their Yorkshire terrier, they had to spell the crucial words in talk, for the dog understood their every sentence. The purse's views about the cause represented by Isabelle Joy were absolutely clear. Non could mistake them, and the few clauses which he curtly added to the discussion rather damped the discussion. And there was a pause. What should you do, Mr. Purser? said Edward Henry, if she began to play any of her tricks here. If she began to play any of her tricks on this ship? Answered the purse, putting his hands on his stout knees, we should know what to do. Of course you can arrest, most decidedly. I could tell you things. The purse stopped, for experience had taught him to be very discreet with passengers, until he had voyaged with them at least ten times. He concluded, the captain is the representative of English law on an English ship. And then, in the silence, created by the resting orchestra, all in the saloon could hear a clear, piercing woman's voice, or a torical at first, and then quickling. Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to talk to you tonight on the subject of the injustice of men to women. Isabelle Joy was on her feet, and leaning over the gallery rail. As she proceeded, a startled hush changed to uproar, and in the uproar could be caught, and now then a detached phrase, such as, for example, this man-governed ship. Possibly it was just this phrase that roused the northerner in the purse. He rose, and looked towards the captain's table, but the captain was not dining in the saloon that evening. Then he strode to the centre of the saloon, beneath the renowned dome which had been so often photographed for the illustrated papers, and sought to destroy Isabelle Joy with a single marine glance. Having failed, he called out loudly, Be quiet, madam. Resume your seat. Isabelle Joy stopped for a second, gave him a glance far more homicidal than his own, and resumed her discourse. Steward! cried the purser, Take that woman out of the saloon! The whole complement of first-class passengers was now standing up, and many of them saw a plate descend from on high, and grazed the purser's shoulder. With the celebrity of a sprinter, the man of authority from Durham disappeared from the ground floor, and was immediately seen in the gallery. Accounts differed afterwards as to the exact order of events, but it is certain that the leader of the band lost his fiddle, which was broken by the lusty Isabelle on the purser's head. It was known later that Isabelle, though not exactly in Irons, was under arrest in her stateroom. She really ought to have thought of that for herself, if she's as smart as she thinks she is, said Edward Henry, privately. Six. Though he was on the way to high success, his anxieties and solicitudes seemed to increase every hour. Immediately after Isabelle Joy's arrest, he became more than ever a crony of the Marconi operator, and began to dispatch vivid and urgent telegrams to London, without counting the cost. On the next day, he began to receive replies. It was the most interesting voyage that the Marconi operator had had since the sinking of the Catherine of Sienna, in which episode his promptness through the air had certainly saved two hundred lives. Edward Henry could scarcely sleep so intense was his longing for Sunday night, his desire to be safe in London with Isabelle Joy. Nay, he could not properly eat. And then the doubt entered his mind whether, after all, he would get to London on Sunday night, for the Lithuania was lagging. She might have been doing it on purpose to ruin him. Every day, in the auction pool on the ship's run, it was the holder of the lower field that pocketed the money of his fellow men. The Lithuania actually descended below five hundred and forty knots in the twenty-four hours, and no authoritative explanation of this behaviour was ever given. Upon leaving New York, there had been talk of reaching Fishguard on Saturday evening, but now the prophesied moment of arrival had been put forward to noon on Sunday. Edward Henry's sole consolation was that each day on the eastward trip consisted of only twenty-three hours. Further, he was by no means free of apprehension about the personal liberty of Isabelle Joy. Isabelle had exceeded the programme arranged between them. It had been no part of his scheme that she should cast plates, nor even break violins on the shining crown of an august Persa. The Persa was angry, and he had the captain, the milder man, behind him. When Isabelle Joy threatened a hunger-strike if she was not immediately released, the Persa signified that she might proceed with her hunger-strike. He well knew that it would be impossible for her to expire of Indonesian before the arrival at Fishguard. The case was serious because Isabelle Joy had created a precedent. Policemen and cabinet ministers had for many months been regarded as the lawful prey of militants, but Isabelle Joy was the first of the militants to damage property and heads which belonged to persons of neither of these classes, and the authorities of the ship were assuredly inclined to hand Isabelle Joy over to the police at Fishguard. What saved the situation for Edward Henry was the factor which saves most situations, namely public opinion. When the saloon clearly realised that Isabelle Joy had done what she had done with the pure and innocent aim of winning a wager, all that was Anglo-Saxon in the saloon ranged itself on the side of true sport, and the matter was lifted above mere politics. A subscription was inaugurated to buy a new fiddle and to pay for shattered crockery, and the amount collected would have purchased, after settling for the crockery, a couple of dozen new fiddles. The unneeded balance was given to seamen's orphanages. The purse was approached. The captain was implored. Influence was brought to bear. In short, the wheels that are within wheels went duly round, and Mrs. Isabelle Joy, after apologies and promises, was unconditionally released. But she had been arrested, and then on Sunday morning the ship met a storm that had a sad effect on divine service, a storm of the imminence that scares even the brass-buttoned occupants of Liner's Bridges. The rumour went round the ship that the captain would not call at Fishguard in such weather. Edward Henry was ready to yield up his spirit in this fearful crisis, which endured two hours. The captain did call at Fishguard in pouring rain, and men came aboard, selling Sunday newspapers that were full of Isabelle's arrest on the steamer, and of the nearing triumph of her arrival in London before midnight. And newspaper correspondence also came aboard. And all the way on the tender, and in the sheds and in the train, Edward Henry and Isabelle Joy were subjected to the journalistic experiments of hardy interviewers. The train arrived at Paddington at 9 p.m. Isabelle had won by three hours. The station was a surging throng of open-mouth curiosities. Edward Henry would not lose sight of his priceless charge, but he sent Maria to dispatch a telegram to Nellie, whose wifely influence in his movements he had till then either forgotten or ignored. And even now his mind was not free. He saw in front of him still twenty-four hours of anguish. 7. The next night, just before the curtain went up, he stood on the stage of the Regent Theatre. And it is a fact that he was trembling, not with fear, but with simple excitement. Through what a day he had passed. There had been the rehearsal in the morning. It had gone off very well, save that Rose Euclid had behaved impossibly, and that the Cunningham girl, the hit of the piece but ousted from her part, had filled the place with just lamentations and recriminations. And then had followed the appalling scene with Rose Euclid. Rose, leaving the theatre for lunch, had beheld workmen removing her name from the electric sign and substituting that of Isabelle Joy. She was a woman and an artist, and it would have been the same had she been a man and an artist. She would not submit to this inconceivable affront. She had resigned her role. She had ripped her contract to bits and flung the bits to the breeze. Upon the whole Edward Henry had been glad. He had sent for Miss Cunningham, who was Rose's understudy, had given her instructions, called another rehearsal for the afternoon, and affected a saving of nearly half Isabelle Joy's fantastic salary. Then he had entered into financial negotiations with four evening papers, and managed to buy, at a price, their contents bills for the day, so that all the West Inn was filled with men and boys, wedding-like aprons, posters which bore the words, Isabelle Joy to appear at the Regent to Night, a great and original stroke. And now he gazed through the peephole of the curtain upon a crammed and half delirious auditorium. The assistant stage manager ordered him off. The curtain went up on the drama in hexameters. He waited in the wings, and spoke soothingly to Isabelle Joy, who, looking juvenile in the airy costume of the messenger, stood fluttering the ogog for her cue. He heard the thunderous crashing roar that met her entrance. He did not hear her line. He walked forth to the glazed balcony at the front of the house, where, in the on-tracks, dandy-smoked cigarettes baptized with girlish names. He could see Piccadilly Circus, and he saw Piccadilly Circus thronged with a multitude of loafers who were happy at the mere spectacle of Isabelle Joy's name glowing on an electric sign. He went back at last to the managerial room. Maria was there, hero-worshipping. Got the figures yet? He asked. Maria beamed. Two hundred and sixty pounds. As long as it keeps up, it means a profit of getting on for two hundred a night. But, dash it, man, the house only holds two hundred and thirty. They're by good sir, said Maria. They are paying ten shillings apiece to stand up in the dress circle. Edward Henry dropped into a chair at the desk. A telegram was lying there, addressed to himself. What's this? He demanded. Just came. He opened it and read. I absolutely forbid this monster was outweighed on a work of art. Twint. Bit late in the day, isn't he? said Edward Henry, showing the telegram to Maria. Besides, Maria observed. He'll come round when he knows what his royalties are. Well, said Edward Henry, I'm going to bed. And he gave a devastating yawn. Eight. One afternoon Edward Henry sat in the king of all the easy chairs in the drawing-room of his house in Trafalgar Road, Bursley. Although the month was September, and the weather warm even for September, a swans-down quilt lay spread upon his knees. His face was pale, his hands were paler, but his eye was clear and his visage enlightened. His beard had grown to nearly its original dimensions. On a chair by his side there were a number of letters to which he had just dictated answers. At a neighbouring table a young clerk was using a typewriter. Stretched at full length on the sofa was Robert Machin, engaged in the perusal of the second edition of that day's Signal. Of late, Robert, having exhausted nearly all available books, had been cultivating during his holidays an interest in journalism, and he would give greater counts in the nursery of events happening in each day's instalment of the Signal's sensational cereal. His heels kicked idly one against the other. A powerful voice resounded in the lobby, and Dr. Sterling entered the room with nellie. Well, Doc! Edward Henry greeted him. So you're in full blast again? Observed the doctor, using a metaphor invented by the population of a district where the roar of furnaces wakens the night. No, Edward Henry protested, as an invalid always will, I'm only just keeping an eye on one or two pressing things. Of course he's in full blast, said nellie, with calm conviction. Yeah, what's this I hear about you going in to wait at the seaside Saturday? asked the doctor. Well, can't I? said Edward Henry. You can, said the doctor. Let's have a look at your mum. What was it you said I've had? Edward Henry questioned. Calatus. Yes, that's the word. I thought I couldn't have got it wrong. Well, you should have seen my mother's face when I told her what you called it. She said he may call it that if he's a mind too, but we had another name for it in my time. You should have heard her sniff. Look here, doc, do you know you've had me down now from pretty near three months? Hey, said Sterling, it's your own obstinacy that's had you down, mon. If you'd listened to your London doctor at first, maybe you wouldn't have had to travel from Houston in an invalid's carriage. If you hadn't had the misfortune to be born an obstinate simpleton, you'd have been up on about six weeks back. But there's no doing anything with you, geniuses. It's all nerves with you and your like. Nerves, exclaimed Edward Henry, pretending to scorn, but he was delighted at the diagnosis. Nerves, repeated the doctor, firmly. You go gadden off to America. You get yourself mixed up in theatres. How's the theatre? I see your famous plays come into an end next week. And what if it is? said Edward Henry, jealous for reputations, including his own. It will have run for a hundred and one nights, and right through August too. No modern poetry play ever did a run as long in London, and no other ever will. I've given the intellectual theatre the biggest ad it's ever had, and I've made money on it. I should have made more if I'd ended the run a fortnight ago, but I was determined to pass the hundredth night, and I shall do. And what are you for a given next? I'm not forgiving anything next, Doc. I've let the regent for five years, at £7,500 a year to a musical comedy syndicate, since you're so curious. And when I've paid the ground rent and taxes and repairs, and something towards a sinking fund, and six percent on my capital, I shall have not far off two thousand a year clear annual profit. You may say what you like, but that's what I call business. It was a remarkable fact that, while giving undemanded information to Dr. Sterling, Edward Henry was in reality defending himself against the accusations of his wife—accusations which, by the way, she had never uttered—but which he thought he had read sometimes in her face. He might, of course, have told his wife these agreeable details directly and in private, but he was a husband, and like many husbands, apt to be indirect. Nelly said not a word. Eh, then you're giving up London, the doctor rose to depart. I am, said Edward Henry, almost blushing. Why? Well, the genius answered, those theatrical things are altogether too exciting and risky, and they're such queer people. Great Scott, I've come out on the right side as it happens, but—well, I'm not as young as I was. I've done with London. The five towns are good enough for me. Nelly, unable to restrain a note of triumph, indiscreetly remarked with just the air of superior sagacity that in a wife drives husband to fury and foolishness, I should think so indeed. Edward Henry leapt from his chair, and the swan's down quilt swathed his slippered feet. Nell, he exploded, clenching his hand, if you say that once more in that tone. Once more, mind! I'll go and take a flat in London to-morrow. The doctor cackled with laughter. Nelly smiled. Even Robert, who had completely ignored the doctor's entrance, glanced round with creased brows. Sit down, dearest. Nelly quietly enjoyed the invalid. But he would not sit down, and to show his independence he helped his wife to escort Sterling into the lobby. Robert, now alone with the ignored young clerk tapping at the table, turned towards him, and in his deliberate, judicial, disdainful, childish voice said to him, Isn't father a funny man? End of CHAPTER X AND END OF THE REGENT by Arnold Bennett Read by Andy Minter