BROXOPP (_firmly_). Not in my hearing. MISS JOHNS. I mean _the_ Stevenson. I think he said, “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.” BROXOPP. Yes—well, that’s another way of putting it. To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive. So Stevenson found it out, too, did he? Well, he was right.... All those years when I was building up Broxopp’s Beans I was happy, really happy. I’m a fighter. I like taking the public by the throat and making them look at me. That’s over now. I’ve got ’em almost too tame. They come and eat the Beans out of my hand. And though my success has given me something—a comfortable home—servants to wait upon me—butlers and what not—the best authors to read—(_he picks up the Shakespeare and puts it down again_)—even a son from Eton and Oxford to gladden my old heart—yet I miss something. I miss the struggle of those early days when my dear wife and I (_he has another look at the door just in case_) set out together hand in hand to beat the world. (_Sighing_) Ah, well! (_In a business-like voice_) Now what can I tell you about myself, Miss Johns? Pray, don’t be afraid of making any notes that you like. MISS JOHNS. I shall remember what you said, Mr. Broxopp, without taking any notes. BROXOPP. Ah, well, you must please yourself about that. (_Looking at his watch_) Now, then, I’m waiting for you. MISS JOHNS. I—— (_She hesitates._) BROXOPP (_kindly_). Perhaps you’re not used to interviewing? This is the first time you’ve done it, eh? MISS JOHNS. Well, I don’t do it, as a rule. And I’m afraid—— BROXOPP. Well, perhaps I can help you with it. You must send me your manuscript. My wife (_he looks at the door with a frown—what has happened to her?_) to whom I owe so much, was my first interviewer—ah, that was many years ago. She picked up a guinea for it, but that wasn’t the important thing. It was the publicity. “A Talk with one of our Commercial Princes”—I don’t suppose the Editor had ever even heard of me. (_Chuckling_) Ah, but we bluffed him. Lord, how we piled it on. “‘Tell me, Mr. Broxopp,’ I said—” that was my wife. “Mr. Broxopp leant against his marble mantelpiece—” that was me—“and fingered the well-known Broxopp tie—” (_indicating it_) same one as this. “‘Ah, my dear boy,’ he said—” The dear boy was my wife, of course—she signed herself N. R. Chillingham, her maiden name; you women weren’t so popular on the Press in those days—we pretended she was a man. “‘Ah, my dear boy,’ he said, and I shall never forget the look which came over his rugged face—” my wife didn’t like rugged, but I insisted; sounded more like a commercial prince—“‘there is only one secret of success, and that is hard work.’” (_With a sigh_) Ah, well, those days are over. Happy days! The world seems to have grown up since then. (_Looking at his watch_) Well, Miss Johns? MISS JOHNS (_very nervous_). Mr. Broxopp, I don’t know how to tell you. I didn’t really come to interview you at all to-day.