“No, I should think not.”
“My dear boy, all the others have to. I knocked a little off the rent of the house, but I don’t actually pay. In fact, you might almost say I was a professional already. You see, Mr. Isaacs is the principal of the National Academy of Cinematographic Art. He’s got a little office in Edgware Road, just one room, you know, to interview candidates in. Well, if he thinks that they’re promising enough—he doesn’t take anyone, mind, only a chosen few—he takes them on as pupils. As Mr. Isaacs says, the best kind of training is practical work, so he produces a film straight away and pays the professionals out of the pupils’ fees. It’s really a very simple and sensible plan. All the characters in ‘John Wesley’ are pupils, except Wesley himself and Whitefield and the Bishop and, of course, Miss La Touche—she’s the wife of the man who looks after the Edgware Road office when Mr. Isaacs is away. Even the cameramen are only learning. It makes everything so exciting, you know. This is the third film Mr. Isaacs has produced. The first went wrong, through Mr. Isaacs trusting one of the pupils to develop it. Of course, he made him pay damages—that’s in the contract they all have to sign—but the film was ruined, and Mr. Isaacs said it was disheartening—he nearly gave up the cinema altogether. But then a lot more pupils came along, so they produced another, which was very good indeed. Quite a revolution in Film Art, Mr. Isaacs said, but that was boycotted through professional jealousy. None of the theatres would show it. But that’s been made all right now. Mr. Isaacs has got in with the ring, he says, and this is going to establish Wonderfilms as the leading company in the country. What’s more, he’s offered me a half share in it for five thousand pounds. It’s wonderfully generous, when he might keep it all to himself, but he says that he must have someone who understands acting from the practical side of the board of directors. Funnily enough, my bank manager is very much against my going in for it. In fact, he’s putting every obstacle in my way. … But I dare say Mr. Isaacs would sooner you didn’t put any of this into your paper.”
“What I really came about was your daughter, Nina.”
“Oh, she’s not taking any part in the film at all. To tell you the truth, I very much doubt whether she has any real talent. It’s funny how these things often skip a generation. My father, now, was a very bad actor indeed—though he always used to take a leading part when we had theatricals at Christmas. Upon my soul, he used to make himself look quite ridiculous sometimes. I remember once he did a skit of Henry Irving in The Bells. …”
“I’m afraid you’ve forgotten me, sir, but I came here last month to see you about Nina. Well, she wanted me to tell you that I’m Mr. Chatterbox now. …”
“Chatterbox … no, my boy, I’m afraid I don’t remember you. My memory’s not what it was. … There’s a Canon Chatterbox at Worcester I used to know … he was up at New College with me … unusual name.”
“Mr. Chatterbox on the Daily Excess.”
“No, no, my dear boy, I assure you not. He was ordained just after I went down and was chaplain somewhere abroad—Bermuda, I think. Then he came home and went to Worcester. He was never on the Daily Excess in his life.”
“No, no, sir, I’m on the Daily Excess.”
“Well, you ought to know your own staff, certainly. He may have left Worcester and taken to journalism. A great many parsons do nowadays. I know. But I must say that he’s the last fellow I should have expected it of. Awful stupid fellow. Besides, he must be at least seventy. … Well, well … who would have thought it. Goodbye, my boy, I’ve enjoyed our talk.”
“Oh, sir,” cried Adam, as Colonel Blount began to walk away. “You don’t understand—I want to marry Nina.”
“Well, it’s no good coming here,” said the Colonel crossly. “I told you, she’s somewhere in London. She’s got nothing to do with the film at all. You’ll have to go and ask her about it. Anyway, I happen to know she’s engaged already. There was a young ass of a chap down here about it the other day … the Rector said he was off his head. Laughed the whole time—bad sign that—still, Nina wants to marry him for some reason. So I’m afraid you’re too late, my boy. I’m sorry … and, anyway, the Rector’s behaved very badly about this film. Wouldn’t lend his car. I suppose it’s because of the Wesleyanism. Narrow-minded, that. … Well, goodbye. So nice of you to come. Remember me to Canon Chatterbox. I must look him up next time I come to London and pull his leg about it. … Writing for the papers, indeed, at his age.”
And Colonel Blount retired victorious.
Late that evening Adam and Nina sat in the gallery of the Café de la Paix eating oysters.
“Well we won’t bother any more about papa,” she said. “We’ll just get married at once.”
“We shall be terribly poor.”
“Well, we shan’t be any poorer than we are now. … I think it will be divine. … Besides, we’ll be terribly economical. Miles says he’s discovered a place near Tottenham Court Road where you can get oysters for three and six a dozen.”
“Wouldn’t they be rather ill-making?”
“Well, Miles said the only odd thing about them is that they all taste a little different. … I had lunch with Miles today. He rang up to find where you were. He wanted to sell Edward Throbbing’s engagement to the Excess. But Van offered him five guineas for it, so he gave it to them.”
“I’m sorry we missed that. The editor will be furious. By the way, how did the gossip page go? Did you manage to fill it all right?”
“My dear, I
