The Bandbox

She moved back to her chair, humming a little tune almost inaudibly; and in passing lightly brushed his forehead with her hand – the ghost of a caress.

“You may go, Jane,” said she, sitting down to face her lover; and when the maid had shut herself out of the room: “Now, dear, read me our play,” said Alison, composing herself to attention.

Staff took up his manuscript and began to read aloud…

Three hours elapsed before he put aside the fourth act and turned expectantly to Alison.

Elbow on knee and chin in hand, eyes fixed upon his face, she sat as one entranced, unable still to shake off the spell of his invention: more lovely, he thought, in this mood of thoughtfulness even than in her brightest animation… Then with a little sigh she roused, relaxed her pose, and sat back, faintly smiling.

“Well?” he asked diffidently. “What do you think?”

“It’s splendid,” she said with a soft, warm glow of enthusiasm – “simply splendid. It’s coherent, it hangs together from start to finish; you’ve got little to learn about construction, my dear. And my part is magnificent: never have I had such a chance to show what I can do with comedy. I’m delighted beyond words. But …” She sighed again, distrait.

“But – ?” he repeated anxiously.

“There are one or two minor things,” she said with shadowy regret, “that you will want to change, I think: nothing worth mentioning, nothing important enough to mar the wonderful cleverness of it all.”

“But tell me – ?”

“Oh, it’s hardly worth talking about, dear boy. Only – there’s the ingenue rôle; you’ve given her too much to do; she’s on the stage in all of my biggest scenes, and has business enough in them to spoil my best effects. Of course, that can be arranged. And then the leading man’s part – I don’t want to seem hypercritical, but he’s altogether too clever; you mustn’t let him overshadow the heroine the way he does; some of his business is plainly hers – I can see myself doing it infinitely better than any leading man we could afford to engage. And those witty lines you’ve put into his mouth – I must have them; you won’t find it hard, I’m sure, to twist the lines a bit, so that they come from the heroine rather than the hero…”

Staff held up a warning hand, and laughed.

“Just a minute, Alison,” said he. “Remember this is a play, not a background for you. And with a play it’s much as with matrimony: if either turns out to be a monologue it’s bound to be a failure.”

Alison frowned slightly, then forced a laugh, and rose. “You authors are all alike,” she complained, pouting; “I mean, as authors. But I’m not going to have any trouble with you, dear boy. We’ll agree on everything; I’m going to be reasonable and you’ve got to be. Besides, we’ve heaps of time to talk it over. Now I’m going to change and get up on deck. Will you wait for me in the saloon, outside? I shan’t be ten minutes.”

“Will I?” he laughed. “Your only trouble will be to keep me away from your door, this trip.” He gathered up his manuscript and steamer-cap, then with his hand on the door-knob paused. “Oh, I forgot that blessed bandbox!”

“Never mind that now,” said Alison. “I’ll have Jane repack it and take it back to your steward. Besides, I’m in a hurry, stifling for fresh air. Just give me twenty minutes…”

She offered him a hand, and he bowed his lips to it; then quietly let himself out into the alleyway.

VI

IFF?

Late that night, Staff drifted into the smoking-room, which he found rather sparsely patronised. This fact surprised him no less than its explanation: it was after eleven o’clock. He had hardly realised the flight of time, so absorbed had he been all evening in argument with Alison Landis.

There remained in the smoking-room, at this late hour, but half a dozen detached men, smoking and talking over their nightcaps, and one table of bridge players – in whose number, of course, there was Mr. Iff.

Nodding abstractedly to the little man, Staff found a quiet corner and sat him down with a sigh and a shake of his head that illustrated vividly his frame of mind. He was a little blue and more than a little distressed. And this was nothing but natural, since he was still in the throes of the discovery that one man can hardly with success play the dual rôle of playwright and sweetheart to a successful actress.

Alison was charming, he told himself, a woman incomparable, tenderly sweet and desirable; and he loved her beyond expression. But … his play was also more than a slight thing in his life. It meant a good deal to him; he had worked hard and put the best that was in him into its making; and hard as the work had been, it had been a labour of love. He wasn’t a man to overestimate his ability; he possessed a singularly sane and clear appreciation of the true value of his work, harbouring no illusions as to his real status either as dramatist or novelist. But at the same time, he knew when he had done good work. And A Single Woman promised to be a good play, measured by modern standards: not great, but sound and clear and strong. The plot was of sufficient originality to command attention; the construction was clear, sane, inevitable; he had mixed the elements of comedy and drama with the deftness of a sure hand; and he had carefully built up the characters in true proportion to one another and to their respective significance in the action.

Should all this then, be garbled and distorted to satisfy a woman’s passion for the centre of the stage? Must he be untrue to the fundamentals of dramaturgic art in order to earn her tolerance? Could he gain his own consent to present to the public as work representative of his fancy the misshapen monstrosity which would inevitably result of yielding to Alison’s insistence?

Small wonder that he sighed and wagged a doleful head!

Now while all this was passing through a mind wrapped in gloomy and profound abstraction, Iff’s voice disturbed him.

“Pity the poor playwright!” it said in accents of amusement.

Looking up, Staff discovered that the little man stood before him, a furtive twinkle in his pale blue eyes. The bridge game had broken up, and they two were now alone in the smoking-room – saving the presence of a steward yawning sleepily and wishing to ’Eaven they’d turn in and give ’im a charnce to snatch a wink o’ sleep.

“Hello,” said Staff, none too cordially. “What d’ you mean by that?”

“Hello,” responded Iff, dropping upon the cushioned seat beside him. He snapped his fingers at the steward. “Give it a name,” said he.

Staff gave it a name. “You don’t answer me,” he persisted. “Why pity the poor playwright?”

“He has his troubles,” quoth Mr. Iff cheerfully, if vaguely. “Need I enumerate them, to you? Anyway, if the poor playwright isn’t to be pitied, what right ’ve you got to stick round here looking like that?”

“Oh!” Staff laughed uneasily. “I was thinking…”

“I flattered you to the extent of surmising as much.” Iff elevated one of the glasses which had just been put before them. “Chin-chin,” said he – “that is, if you’ve no particular objection to chin-chinning with a putative criminal of the d’p’st dye?”

“None whatever,” returned Staff, lifting his own glass – “at least, not so long as it affords me continued opportunity to watch him cooking up his cunning little crimes.”

“Ah!” cried Iff with enthusiasm – “there spoke the true spirit of Sociological Research. Long may you rave!”

He set down an empty glass.

Staff laughed, sufficiently diverted to forget his troubles for the time being.

“I wish I could make you out,” he said slowly, eyeing the older man.

“You mean you hope I’m not going to take you in.”

“Either way – or both: please yourself.”

“Ah!” said the little man appreciatively – “I am a deep one, ain’t I?”

He laid a finger alongside his nose and looked unutterably enigmatic.

At this point they were interrupted: a man burst into the smoking-room from the deck and pulled up breathing heavily, as if he had been running, while he raked the room with quick, enquiring glances. Staff recognised Mr. Manvers, the purser, betraying every evidence of a disturbed mind. At the same moment, Manvers caught sight of the pair in the corner and made for them.

“Mr. Ismay – ” he began, halting before their table and glaring gloomily at Staff’s companion.

“I beg your pardon,” said the person addressed, icily; “my name is Iff.”

Manvers made an impatient movement with one hand. “Iff or Ismay – it’s all one to me – to you too, I fancy – ”

“One moment!” snapped Iff, rising. “If you were an older man,” he said stiffly, “and a smaller, I’d pull your impertinent nose, sir! As things stand, I’d probably get my head punched if I did.”

“That’s sound logic,” returned Manvers with a sneer.

“Well, then, sir? What do you want with me?”