A Damsel in Distress | Page 7

In Little
Gooch Street all the children of all the small shopkeepers who support
life in that backwater by selling each other vegetables and singing
canaries were out and about playing curious games of their own
invention. Cats washed themselves on doorsteps, preparatory to looking
in for lunch at one of the numerous garbage cans which dotted the
sidewalk. Waiters peered austerely from the windows of the two Italian
restaurants which carry on the Lucretia Borgia tradition by means of
one shilling and sixpenny table d'hote luncheons. The proprietor of the

grocery store on the corner was bidding a silent farewell to a tomato
which even he, though a dauntless optimist, had been compelled to
recognize as having outlived its utility. On all these things the sun
shone with a genial smile. Round the corner, in Shaftesbury Avenue, an
east wind was doing its best to pierce the hardened hides of the
citizenry; but it did not penetrate into Little Gooch Street, which, facing
south and being narrow and sheltered, was enabled practically to bask.
Mac, the stout guardian of the stage door of the Regal Theatre, whose
gilded front entrance is on the Avenue, emerged from the little glass
case in which the management kept him, and came out to observe life
and its phenomena with an indulgent eye. Mac was feeling happy this
morning. His job was a permanent one, not influenced by the success or
failure of the productions which followed one another at the theatre
throughout the year; but he felt, nevertheless, a sort of proprietary
interest in these ventures, and was pleased when they secured the
approval of the public. Last night's opening, a musical piece by an
American author and composer, had undoubtedly made a big hit, and
Mac was glad, because he liked what he had seen of the company, and,
in the brief time in which he had known him, had come to entertain a
warm regard for George Bevan, the composer, who had travelled over
from New York to help with the London production.
George Bevan turned the corner now, walking slowly, and, it seemed to
Mac, gloomily towards the stage door. He was a young man of about
twenty-seven, tall and well knit, with an agreeable, clean-cut face, of
which a pair of good and honest eyes were the most noticeable feature.
His sensitive mouth was drawn down a little at the corners, and he
looked tired.
"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