“Isn’t it worth enduring the place if it puts your leg right, sir? And at least we could get on with the boek.”

“Certain it is I can’t write in this bloody hotel. How I hate hotels. Dikon,” cried Gaunt with an assumption of boyish enthusiasm, “shall we fly to America? Shall we do Henry Vth in New York? They’d take it, you know, just now. ‘And Crispin, Crispian shall ne’er go by …’ God, I think I must play Henry in New York.”

“Wouldn’t you rather play him in London, sir, on a fit-up stage with the blitz for battle noises off?”

“Of course I would, damn you.”

“Why not try this place? At least it may turn out to be copy for the Life. Thermal divertissements. And then, when you’re fit and ready to hit ’em… London.”

“You talk like a Nanny in her dotage,” said Gaunt fretfully. “I suppose you and Colly have plotted this frightfulness between you. Where is Colly?”

“Ironing your trousers, sir.”

“Tell him to come here.”

Dikon spoke on the telephone and in a moment the door opened to admit a wisp of a man with a face that resembled a wrinkled kid glove. This was Gaunt’s dresser and personal servant, Alfred Colly. Colly had been the dresser provided by the management when Gaunt, a promising young leading man with no social background, had made his first great success. After a phenomenal run, Colly accepted Gaunt’s offer of permanent employment, but had never adopted the technique of a manservant. His attitude towards his employer held the balance between extreme familiarity and a cheerful recognition of Gaunt’s prestige. He laid the trousers that he carried over the back of a chair, folded his hands and blinked.

“You’ve heard all about this damned hot spot, no doubt?” said Gaunt.

“That’s right, sir,” said Colly. “Going to turn mudlarks, aren’t we?”

“I haven’t said so.”