“Second childhood,” said Eliphalet pathetically. “Producing ‘A Man’s Way,’ aren’t you? Must say it surprised me a bit. Plucky of you. Good play. Came to us once.” “You know it, then?” “Yes; thought of putting it up.” “That’s splendid news,” said Eliphalet, with a sudden revival of confidence. “How’s it shaped?” “You’ll see,” said Eliphalet; then, with a wail in his voice, “It has gone beyond my powers, Mr. Wakefield, and I feel so old.” “We all do before a new production,” came the cheerful reply. “I don’t want anyone to know who is in front,” Eliphalet told Manning, “but tell the company I look to them to do their utmost.” And so the curtain rose and fell on the three acts of “A Man’s Way,” and when all was over Raymond Wakefield made his way round to Eliphalet’s dressing-room and walked in, whistling cheerfully. “Well?” queried Eliphalet nervously. “You old marvel,” said Raymond. “How d’you come to do it?” “Do what?” “Act like that?” Eliphalet flushed like a schoolboy praised for his bowling. “It is all right, then?” “_You’re_ all right. You’ve forgotten all you learnt in a theatre, and are playing what you’ve learnt in life. If you were twenty, or even ten, years younger——” “Yes, I’m too old.” “’Course you are—and too old for this part. But it’s a work. You’ll get no gratitude, though, on that account. I’ll tell you what the public and the papers’ll say. They’ll say you are not serving them with the goods they’re accustomed to receive, and you’ll get slanged for default as sure as there’s an agent in Charing Cross Road.” “What about the others?” Raymond Wakefield’s mouth went down at the corners like a child about to cry. “Won’t do! You’ve committed the unforgivable sin of standing by your pals—oh, I know you have—and art and philanthropy don’t mix and never will. My motto is to sack everyone at the end of a run, and then look round afresh. In consequence, I suppose I’m pretty well hated by every actor on the London stage, and the best-beloved of the public.” “And Miss Mornice June—the wife?” Eliphalet put the question tentatively. “Naughty, very naughty indeed. D’you know what I’d do with her?” “She’s my adopted daughter,” said Eliphalet, to be on the safe side. “I’d put her in the Cinema business, and live luxuriously on a ten per cent. commission of the salary she earned.” “Strange you should say that. I gave her this part to keep her away from the Cinema.” “Then it wasn’t fair to the theatre public—or the Cinema public either.” “Do you consider our chances of success are remote?” Raymond dropped his cigarette to the floor, and twisted it out with the heel of his boot. “God, He knows! It’s all a lottery. You’re of the provinces—you should be able to say.” “But I ask you.” “Well, if I had to stake my last farthing in a theatrical venture, it would not be in this one.” “Thanks,” said Eliphalet. “Mine is.”