is going on the stage!”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Ah! The thing doesn’t hit you! You don’t get it properly! Here’s the point. All his family are most fearfully dead against his going on the stage. There’s going to be no end of trouble if he isn’t headed off. And, what’s worse, my Aunt Agatha will blame me , you see.”
“I see, sir.”
“Well, can’t you think of some way of stopping him?”
“Not, I confess, at the moment, sir.”
“Well, have a stab at it.”
“I will give the matter my best consideration, sir. Will there be anything further tonight?”
“I hope not! I’ve had all I can stand already.”
“Very good, sir.”
He popped off.
The part which old George had written for the chump Cyril took up about two pages of typescript; but it might have been Hamlet , the way that poor, misguided pinhead worked himself to the bone over it. I suppose, if I heard him his lines once, I did it a dozen times in the first couple of days. He seemed to think that my only feeling about the whole affair was one of enthusiastic admiration, and that he could rely on my support and sympathy. What with trying to imagine how Aunt Agatha was going to take this thing, and being woken up out of the dreamless in the small hours every other night to give my opinion of some new bit of business which Cyril had invented, I became more or less the