trade-mark on the stage. 'I could just stand the thyme and the bullets, but now that he has taken a ninety-nine years' lease of the spring corn, and the woodpeckers, and things, he amounts to a public menace.'
'Why do you listen to him?'
'Well, there's a dreadful fascination about it, you know. One thinks: Well, that's the absolute sky-limit of awfulness, than which nothing could be worse. And so next week you listen to see if it really can be worse. It's a snare. It's so awful that you can't even switch off. You wait fascinated for the next piece of awfulness, and the next. And you are still there when he signs off.'
'It couldn't be, could it, Marta, that this is mere professional jealousy?'
'Are you suggesting that the creature is a professional ?' asked Marta, dropping her voice a perfect fifth, so that it quivered with the reflection of repertory years, and provincial digs, and Sunday trains, and dreary auditions in cold dark theatres.
'No, I'm suggesting that he is an actor. A quite natural and unconscious actor, who has made himself a household word in a few years without doing any noticeable work to that end. I could forgive you for not liking that. What did Marguerite find so wonderful about him?'
'I can tell you that. His devotion. Marguerite liked picking the wings off flies. Walter would let her take him to pieces and then come back for more.'
'There was one time that he didn't come back.'
'Yes.'
'What was the final row about, do you know?'
'I don't think there was one. I think he just told her he was through. At least that is what he said at the inquest. Did you read the obituaries, by the way?'
'I suppose I must have at the time. I don't remember them individually.'
'If she had lived another ten years she would have got a tiny par in among the "ads" on the back page. As it was she got better notices than Duse. "A flame of genius has gone out and the world is the poorer." "She had the lightness of a blown leaf and the grace of a willow in the wind." That sort of thing. One was surprised that there were no black edges in the Press. The mourning was practically of national dimensions.'
'It's a far cry from that to Liz Garrowby.'
'Dear, nice Liz. If Marguerite Merriam was too bad even for Walter Whitmore, then Liz is too good for him. Much too good for him. I should be delighted if the beautiful young man took her from under his nose.'
'Somehow I can't see your "beautiful young man" in the rôle of husband, whereas Walter will make a very good one.'
'My good man, Walter will broadcast about it. All about their children, and the shelves he has put up in the pantry, and how the little woman's bulbs are coming along, and the frost patterns on the nursery window. She'd be much safer with—what did you say his name was?'
'Searle. Leslie Searle.' Absentmindedly he watched the pale yellow neon signature of Laurent's coming nearer.
'I don't think safe is the adjective I would apply to Searle, somehow,' he said reflectively; and from that moment forgot all about Leslie Searle until the day when he was sent down to Salcott St Mary to search for the young man's body.
2
'DAYLIGHT!' said Liz, coming out on to the pavement. 'Good clean daylight.' She sniffed the afternoon air with pleasure. 'The car is round the corner in the square. Do you know London well, Mr—Mr Searle?'
'I've been in England for holidays quite often, yes. Not often as early in the year as this, though.'
'You haven't seen England at all unless you have seen it in the spring.'
'So I've heard.'
'Did you fly over?'
'Just from Paris, like a good American. Paris is fine in the spring too.'
'So I've heard,' she said, returning his phrase and his tone. And then, finding the eye he turned on her intimidating, went on: 'Are you a journalist? Is that how you knew Cooney Wiggin?'
'No, I'm in the same line as Cooney was.'
'Press photography?'
'Not Press. Just photography. I spend most of the winter on the Coast, doing people.'
'The
'Why do you listen to him?'
'Well, there's a dreadful fascination about it, you know. One thinks: Well, that's the absolute sky-limit of awfulness, than which nothing could be worse. And so next week you listen to see if it really can be worse. It's a snare. It's so awful that you can't even switch off. You wait fascinated for the next piece of awfulness, and the next. And you are still there when he signs off.'
'It couldn't be, could it, Marta, that this is mere professional jealousy?'
'Are you suggesting that the creature is a professional ?' asked Marta, dropping her voice a perfect fifth, so that it quivered with the reflection of repertory years, and provincial digs, and Sunday trains, and dreary auditions in cold dark theatres.
'No, I'm suggesting that he is an actor. A quite natural and unconscious actor, who has made himself a household word in a few years without doing any noticeable work to that end. I could forgive you for not liking that. What did Marguerite find so wonderful about him?'
'I can tell you that. His devotion. Marguerite liked picking the wings off flies. Walter would let her take him to pieces and then come back for more.'
'There was one time that he didn't come back.'
'Yes.'
'What was the final row about, do you know?'
'I don't think there was one. I think he just told her he was through. At least that is what he said at the inquest. Did you read the obituaries, by the way?'
'I suppose I must have at the time. I don't remember them individually.'
'If she had lived another ten years she would have got a tiny par in among the "ads" on the back page. As it was she got better notices than Duse. "A flame of genius has gone out and the world is the poorer." "She had the lightness of a blown leaf and the grace of a willow in the wind." That sort of thing. One was surprised that there were no black edges in the Press. The mourning was practically of national dimensions.'
'It's a far cry from that to Liz Garrowby.'
'Dear, nice Liz. If Marguerite Merriam was too bad even for Walter Whitmore, then Liz is too good for him. Much too good for him. I should be delighted if the beautiful young man took her from under his nose.'
'Somehow I can't see your "beautiful young man" in the rôle of husband, whereas Walter will make a very good one.'
'My good man, Walter will broadcast about it. All about their children, and the shelves he has put up in the pantry, and how the little woman's bulbs are coming along, and the frost patterns on the nursery window. She'd be much safer with—what did you say his name was?'
'Searle. Leslie Searle.' Absentmindedly he watched the pale yellow neon signature of Laurent's coming nearer.
'I don't think safe is the adjective I would apply to Searle, somehow,' he said reflectively; and from that moment forgot all about Leslie Searle until the day when he was sent down to Salcott St Mary to search for the young man's body.
2
'DAYLIGHT!' said Liz, coming out on to the pavement. 'Good clean daylight.' She sniffed the afternoon air with pleasure. 'The car is round the corner in the square. Do you know London well, Mr—Mr Searle?'
'I've been in England for holidays quite often, yes. Not often as early in the year as this, though.'
'You haven't seen England at all unless you have seen it in the spring.'
'So I've heard.'
'Did you fly over?'
'Just from Paris, like a good American. Paris is fine in the spring too.'
'So I've heard,' she said, returning his phrase and his tone. And then, finding the eye he turned on her intimidating, went on: 'Are you a journalist? Is that how you knew Cooney Wiggin?'
'No, I'm in the same line as Cooney was.'
'Press photography?'
'Not Press. Just photography. I spend most of the winter on the Coast, doing people.'
'The
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