Rehearsing

'How did you get on at the rehearsal today?' Edith asked.

Bruce was looking rather depressed.

'Not very well. You can't think how much jealousy there is in these things! When you rehearse with people day after day you begin to find out what their real characters are. And Mitchell always had a very nasty temper. Of course, he says it's quick and soon over. He thinks that's the best kind to have. I think he's rather proud of it. The fact is he has it so often that it's as bad as if it were slow and not soon over. First of all, you know, there was a kind of scene about whether or not I should shave for the part of the footman. He said I ought. I declared I wouldn't ruin my appearance just for the sake of a miserable little part like that; in fact, I might say for a few minutes in a couple of hours during one evening in my life! At last we compromised. I'm to wear a kind of thing invented by Clarkson, or somebody like that, which gums down the moustache, so that you don't notice it'

'But you don't notice it, anyhow, much.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'I don't mean anything. But I never heard of anybody noticing it. No-one has ever made any remark to me about it.'

'They wouldn't take the liberty. It can't have passed unnoticed, because, if it had, why should Mitchell ask me to shave?'

'There is something in that, I must admit,' she answered.

'Well, I consented to this suggestion of Mitchell's, though I don't like it at all, and I daresay it will spoil my appearance altogether. It was about something else we had a bit of a tiff this afternoon. We were going through the whole play, and one or two people were to be allowed to see us. Mitchell said he expected a certain manager, who is a pal of his, to criticise us—give us some hints, and so on. I saw a man who hadn't been there before, and I spotted him at once. He looked like a celebrity. Without waiting for an introduction, I went up and asked him what he thought of our performance. He said it seemed all right. Then I asked him if he considered my reading of my part what he would have done himself, and he laughed and said, "Yes, very much the same." We were criticising the other actors and having a long talk—at least I was having a long talk,—he didn't say much—when he suddenly said, "I'm afraid you must excuse me," and went away. Then Mitchell came up to me and said, "How on earth is it you had so much to say to that chap?" I said (still believing he was the manager) that he was an old acquaintance of mine, at least, I had known him a long time—on and off—and that he seemed very pleased to see me again. Mitchell said, "Oh, you met him before today, did you?" I answered, "Yes, rather," and I said, "He was very friendly, I must say. He's very pleased with my performance. I shouldn't be surprised if he sends me a box for his First Night. If he does you must come, you and Mrs Mitchell." As a matter of fact, I had hinted that I should like a box for the First Night at the Haymarket, and he had laughed good-naturedly, and said, "Oh, yes." So it was really no wonder that I regarded that as a promise. Well, when I told him that, Mitchell said, "He offered you a box, did he? Very nice of him. You know who he is, don't you? He's a man who has come to see about the electric lighting for the footlights. I've never seen him before." Now, you know, Edith, it was a most infernal shame of Mitchell to let me make the mistake with his eyes open. Here was I talking about acting and plays, deferentially consulting him, asking for artistic hints and boxes from an electrical engineer! Oh, it's too bad, it really is.'

'So you quarrelled with Mitchell again?'

'We had a few words.'

'Then the manager was not there?'

'No; he'd promised, but didn't turn up. I told Mitchell what I thought of him in very plain terms. I went so far even as to threaten to throw up my part, and he said, "Well, all right, if you don't like it you can give it up at any time," I said, "Who else could you get at the last minute to play a footman's part?" and he said, "Our footman!"'

'That would be realism, wouldn't it?'

'I was awfully hurt, but it was settled I was to stick to it. Then there are other things. That horrid Miss Flummerfelt—how I do dislike that girl—had been silly enough to go boasting to Mrs Mitchell of my invitation to lunch the other day.'

'Boasting!' said Edith.

'Yes, it was a shame, because of course I only asked her simply and solely as a way of returning some of the Mitchells' hospitality—'

'Then why did you mind their knowing?' Edith inquired.

'I didn't mind their knowing. How stupid you are, Edith. But I objected strongly to the tone in which Miss Flummerfelt had evidently spoken of it—to the light in which she had represented the whole thing. Mrs Mitchell came up to me in her soft purring way—what a horrid little woman she is!'

'Why, you told me she was so sweet and charming!'

'I didn't know her so well then. She came up to me and said, "Oh, Mr Ottley, will you think it rude of me if I suggest that you don't ask dear Elsa out to lunch any more? She said it's so awkward always refusing, but she's not allowed to go out like that without her mother. In fact, though her father is German by birth, she's been brought up quite in the French style. And though, of course, we know you meant no harm, she's positively shocked. You really mustn't flirt with her, Mr Ottley. She doesn't like it. In fact, she asked me to speak to you about it." There was a nice position for me, Edith! Isn't Miss Flummerfelt a treacherous little beast?'

'I thought you said she was so enormously tall. A regal-looking creature was what you called her the first time you met her. Anyhow, you must have been trying to flirt with her, Bruce. I think it rather serves you right. Well, what happened?'

'I said that I was very much astonished at Miss Flummerfelt's misunderstanding me so completely. I even said that some girls have a way of taking everything as if it was meant—in that sort of way, and that I had only asked her to lunch to meet my wife. But, of course, I promised not to do it again. And now it will be rather awful at the rehearsals, because Mrs Mitchell, of course, told her back, and Miss Flummerfelt and I don't speak.'

'Well, after all, it doesn't matter so very much. You only have to announce her. It's with the woman who plays Lady Jenkins you have your longer scene, isn't it? What is she like?'

'Mrs Abbot, do you mean? Oh, I don't think much of her. She's acted before and thinks herself quite as good as a professional, and frightfully smart. She's the most absurd snob you ever saw. She had the cheek to criticise me and say that I don't move about the room naturally, like a real footman. I told her, rather ironically, that I was afraid I'd never been one. So she answered, "Still, you might have seen one." Oh, I have a good deal to go through, one way and another!'

'You'll be glad when it's over, won't you?'

'Very glad. The strain's telling on my health. But I've been better on the whole, I think, don't you?'

'Yes, indeed. You know you have to be,' Edith said.

'Of course—I know. Try not to make me late again tomorrow.'