crowd whose
component units seemed for the most part to recognise
the
probability that they were quite as interesting as any play
they were likely to see. Those who bore no particular face-value
themselves derived a certain
amount of social
dignity from the near
neighbourhood of
obvious notabilities; if one could not obtain
recognition oneself there was some vague pleasure in being able to
recognise notoriety at
intimately close quarters.
"Who is that woman with the
auburn hair and a rather effective
belligerent gleam in her eyes?" asked a man sitting just behind
Comus; "she looks as if she might have created the world in six
days and destroyed it on the seventh."
"I forget her name," said his neighbour; "she writes. She's the
author of that book, 'The Woman who wished it was Wednesday,' you
know. It used to be the convention that women writers should be
plain and dowdy; now we have gone to the other
extreme and build
them on extravagantly
decorative lines."
A buzz of
recognition came from the front rows of the pit, together
with a craning of necks on the part of those in less favoured
seats. It heralded the
arrival of Sherard Blaw, the
dramatist who
had discovered himself, and who had given so ungrudgingly of his
discovery to the world. Lady Caroline, who was already directing
little conversational onslaughts from her box, gazed
gently for a
moment at the new
arrival, and then turned to the silver-haired
Archdeacon sitting beside her.
"They say the poor man is
haunted by the fear that he will die
during a general
election, and that his obituary notices will be
seriously curtailed by the space taken up by the
election results.
The curse of our party
system, from his point of view, is that it
takes up so much room in the press."
The Archdeacon smiled indul
gently. As a man he was so exquisitely
worldly that he fully merited the name of the Heavenly Worldling
bestowed on him by an admiring
duchess, and
withal his
texture was
shot with a pattern of such
genuine saintliness that one felt that
whoever else might hold the keys of Paradise he, at least,
possessed a private latchkey to that abode.
"Is it not
significant of the altered grouping of things," he
observed, "that the Church, as represented by me, sympathises with
the message of Sherard Blaw, while neither the man nor his message
find
acceptance with unbelievers like you, Lady Caroline."
Lady Caroline blinked her eyes. "My dear Archdeacon," she said,
"no one can be an unbeliever nowadays. The Christian Apologists
have left one nothing to disbelieve."
The Archdeacon rose with a
delightedchuckle. "I must go and tell
that to De la Poulett," he said, indicating a
clerical figure
sitting in the third row of the stalls; "he spends his life
explaining from his
pulpit that the glory of Christianity consists
in the fact that though it is not true it has been found necessary
to
invent it."
The door of the box opened and Courtenay Youghal entered, bringing
with him subtle
suggestion of chaminade and an
atmosphere of
political
tension. The Government had fallen out of the good
graces of a section of its supporters, and those who were not in
the know were busy predicting a serious
crisis over a forthcoming
division in the Committee stage of an important Bill. This was
Saturday night, and unless some successful cajolery were effected
between now and Monday afternoon, Ministers would be,
seemingly, in
danger of defeat.
"Ah, here is Youghal," said the Archdeacon; "he will be able to
tell us what is going to happen in the next forty-eight hours. I
hear the Prime Minister says it is a matter of
conscience, and they
will stand or fall by it."
His hopes and sympathies were notoriously on the Ministerial side.