The speaker was a Cockney impresario who had come to Paris to collect a few French revue artistes for a scene in a London production. “I’ll come and play the part if you like,” replied Wynne. The little man scrutinized him closely. “Some idea!” he ejaculated (he had a habit of employing American expressions). “But could you realize your own personality?—that’s the point.” “Good God! you don’t imagine this is my personality,” came the reply. “This is as much a performance as any of Sarah Bernhardt’s.” “Durn me, but I believe you.” As a result Wynne took the evening off without permission, and made his first acquaintance with the histrionic art. Being in no way affected with nervousness he did not attempt to do otherwise than portray a waiter as a waiter actually is. The producer acclaimed the performance with delight. He sacked the other probationer, and gave Wynne a contract for two months at a salary of two pounds five shillings a week. “If I am to come with you I shall want five pounds down to discharge a debt,” said Wynne. The impresario grumbled somewhat, but since he was paying thirty shillings a week less than he had anticipated, and was getting a vastly superior article, he finally agreed. So Wynne signed the contract, pocketed the notes, and went to break the news to his employer. M. le Patron was not stinting in the matter of abuse. He condemned Wynne very heartily for lack of devotion to his welfare, upbraided himself for misplaced generosity, offered him an increased wage to remain, and finally—protest proving useless—shook hands and wished him every kind of good fortune. Four days later found the little company of players waiting for the outgoing train at the Gare du Nord. To Wynne there was something tremendously portentous in the moment. To find seclusion for his thoughts he walked to the extreme end of the platform, where it sloped down to the line, and here, to the unlistening ears of a great hanging water-pipe, he bade farewell to the Unfriendly City. “One of these days I shall return,” he spoke aloud; “one of these days you will stretch out your hands to welcome me.” And the little Cockney impresario who had followed him, fearful lest he should try to escape with the five pounds, touched his shoulder, and said: “Studying your part, son?” “Always,” came the answer. II They arrived in London about half-past six the same evening, and Wynne could not help smiling as he noticed how all the good people were hurrying homeward from their work as though their lives depended upon expedition. As he came from the station he observed how they fought for places on the omnibuses, and jostled down the steps to the tube stations.