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<h2 id="id01074" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XVII</h2> Bruce's Play 'Edith,' said Bruce, 'come in here. I want to speak to you. Shut the door.' She shut it, and stood waiting. 'Don't stand there. Come and sit down…. Now listen to me very seriously. I want to ask you a question.' 'How would you like me to be making about £5,000 a year—at least?' 'Need you ask?' 'And all by my own talent—not by anybody else's help.' 'It would be jolly,' she said, trying not to look doubtful. 'Jolly! I should think it would. Now I'll tell you my scheme—what I've made up my mind to do.' 'What?' 'I'm going to write a play.' Edith controlled her expression, and said it was a very good idea. 'Such a play,' said Bruce. 'A really strong, powerful piece—all wit and cynicism like Bernard Shaw—but, full of heart and feeling and sentiment, and that sort of rot. It'll have all sorts of jolly fantastic ideas—like Peter Pan and The Beloved Vagabond, but without the faults of Locke and Barrie—and it's going to be absolutely realistic and natural in parts—like the Sicilians, you know. However, I don't mind telling you that my model—you must have a model, more or less—is going to be Bernard Shaw. I like his style.' 'It's the most lovely idea I ever heard of. What theatre are you going to produce it at?' 'That depends. For some things I should prefer His Majesty's, but I'm rather fond of the Haymarket, too. However, if the terms were better, I might give it to Charlie Hawtrey, or even Alexander, if he offered me exceptionally good royalties.' 'Oh! Are you going to have it put up to auction?' 'Don't talk nonsense. What do you mean? No, I shall simply send a copy round to all the principal people and see what they say.' He walked up and down the room once or twice. 'The reason I'm so determined not to let Bourchier have it is simply this: he doesn't realise my idea—he never could. Mind you, I believe he would do his best, but his Personality is against him. Do you see, Edith?' 'I see your point. But—' 'There's no reason why it shouldn't be quite as great a success as The Merry Widow.' 'Oh, is it going to be a comic opera?' 'Why, of course not. Don't I tell you it's to be a powerful play of real life.' 'Will you tell me the plot?' He smiled rather fatuously. 'I'll tell you some of the plot, certainly, if you like—at least, I'll tell you how it's going to begin.' 'Do go on!'— 'Well, I must tell you it begins in a rather unconventional way—entirely different from most plays; but that'll make it all the more striking, and I won't alter it—mind that—not for anybody. Well, the curtain goes up, and you find two servants—do you see?—talking over their master and mistress. The maid—her name's Parker—is dusting the photographs and things, and she says to the manservant something about "The mistress does seem in a tantrum, doesn't she, Parker?" So he says—' 'But are they both called Parker?' asked Edith. 'Yes—no—of course not. I forgot; it's the man that's called Parker. But that isn't the point. Well, they talk, and gradually let out a little of the plot. Then two friends of the hero come in, and—oh, I can't bother to tell you any more now; but isn't it rather a good idea, eh? So new!' 'Capital! Splendid! Such a lovely original idea. I do wish you'd be quick and do it, Bruce.' 'I am being quick; but you mustn't be in too great a hurry; you must give me time.' 'Will it be ready in time for the season—I mean after Easter?' 'What! in a fortnight? How could they be ready to produce it in a fortnight, especially with the Easter holidays between? It won't be long, that I can promise you. I'm a quick worker.' He waited a minute, and then said— 'You mustn't be depressed, Edith dear, if I get a little slating from some of the critics, you know. You can't expect them all to appreciate a new writer at once. And it really won't make any difference to the success if my play pleases the public, which I don't mind telling you I know it's sure to do; because, you see, it'll have all the good points and none of the bad ones of all the successful plays of the last six years. That's my dodge. That's how I do it.' 'I see.' 'Won't it be a joke when the governor and the mater are there on the first night? They'll be frightfully pleased. You must try and prevent the mater swaggering about it too much, you know. She's such a dear, she's sure to be absurdly proud of it. And it'll be a bit of a score off the governor in a way, too. He never would have thought I could do it, would he? And Raggett will be surprised, too. You must have a ripping new dress for the first night, Edith, old girl.' 'I think I shall have Liberty satin, dear—that new shade of blue—it wears better than Nattier. But I won't order it just yet. You haven't written the first scene, have you?' 'The first scene? No! Plays aren't done like that. The chief thing about a play like this is to get a scenario.' 'Oh! Isn't that where the people sit?' 'Don't be ridiculous! You're thinking of the auditorium. I mean the skeleton of the play. That's what I shall send round to the managers. They can see what it's going to be like at once.' 'How many acts will it be?' 'Four.' 'And have you settled on the name?' 'Yes, as a matter of fact I have settled on a name; but don't you go giving it away. It's rather an original name. It would do if I developed the comedy interest just the same and just as well as if I made the chief point the tragic part. It's going to be called You Never Know. Good name, isn't it?' 'It's a splendid name. But isn't it a tiny bit like something else?' 'How unsympathetic you are! The fact is you don't understand. That's what it is.' 'Oh, I do sympathise immensely, Bruce, and I'm sure you'll have a great success. What fun it will be! Are you going to work at it this afternoon?' 'Why, no! not this afternoon. I'm rather tired out with thinking. I think I shall go and look in at the club.' <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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