A Damsel in Distress

"Morning, Mac."

"Good morning, sir."

"Anything for me?"

"Yes, sir. Some telegrams. I'll get 'em. Oh, I'll _get_ 'em," said

Mac, as if reassuring some doubting friend and supporter as to his

ability to carry through a labour of Hercules.

He disappeared into his glass case. George Bevan remained outside

in the street surveying the frisking children with a sombre glance.

They seemed to him very noisy, very dirty and very young.

Disgustingly young. Theirs was joyous, exuberant youth which made a

fellow feel at least sixty. Something was wrong with George today,

for normally he was fond of children. Indeed, normally he was fond

of most things. He was a good-natured and cheerful young man, who

liked life and the great majority of those who lived it

contemporaneously with himself. He had no enemies and many

friends.

But today he had noticed from the moment he had got out of bed that

something was amiss with the world. Either he was in the grip of

some divine discontent due to the highly developed condition of his

soul, or else he had a grouch. One of the two. Or it might have

been the reaction from the emotions of the previous night. On the

morning after an opening your sensitive artist is always apt to

feel as if he had been dried over a barrel.

Besides, last night there had been a supper party after the

performance at the flat which the comedian of the troupe had rented

in Jermyn Street, a forced, rowdy supper party where a number of

tired people with over-strained nerves had seemed to feel it a duty

to be artificially vivacious. It had lasted till four o'clock when

the morning papers with the notices arrived, and George had not got

to bed till four-thirty. These things colour the mental outlook.

Mac reappeared.

"Here you are, sir."

"Thanks."

George put the telegrams in his pocket. A cat, on its way back from

lunch, paused beside him in order to use his leg as a serviette.

George tickled it under the ear abstractedly. He was always

courteous to cats, but today he went through the movements

perfunctorily and without enthusiasm.

The cat moved on. Mac became conversational.

"They tell me the piece was a hit last night, sir."

"It seemed to go very well."

"My Missus saw it from the gallery, and all the first-nighters was

speaking very 'ighly of it. There's a regular click, you know, sir,

over here in London, that goes to all the first nights in the

gallery. 'Ighly critical they are always. Specially if it's an

American piece like this one. If they don't like it, they precious

soon let you know. My missus ses they was all speakin' very 'ighly

of it. My missus says she ain't seen a livelier show for a long

time, and she's a great theatregoer. My missus says they was all

specially pleased with the music."