Mr. Marrier started back—­not in the figurative but in the literal sense—­as he listened.

“But you’ll never send that out!” he exclaimed.

“Why not?”

“No paper will print it!”

“My dear Marrier,” said Edward Henry, “don’t be a simpleton.  You know as well as I do that half-a-dozen papers will be delighted to print it.  And all the rest will copy the one that does print it.  It’ll be the talk of London to-morrow, and Isabel Joy will be absolutely snuffed out.”

“Well,” said Mr. Marrier, “I never heard of such a thing!”

“Pity you didn’t, then!”

Mr. Marrier moved away.

“I say,” he murmured at the door, “don’t you think you ought to read that to Rose first?”

“I’ll read it to Rose like a bird,” said Edward Henry.

Within two minutes—­it was impossible to get from his room to the dressing-rooms in less—­he was knocking at Rose Euclid’s door.  “Who’s there?” said a voice.  He entered and then replied:  “I am.”

Rose Euclid was smoking a cigarette and scratching the arm of an easy-chair behind her.  Her maid stood near by with a whisky-and-soda.

“Sorry you can’t go on with the rehearsal, Miss Euclid,” said Edward Henry very quickly.  “However, we must do the best we can.  But Mr. Marrier thought you’d like to hear this.  It’s part of an interview with me that’s going to appear to-morrow in the press.”

Without pausing, he went on to read:  “I found Mr. Alderman Machin, the hero of the Five Towns and the proprietor and initiator of London’s newest and most up-to-date and most intellectual theatre, surrounded by a complicated apparatus of telephones and typewriters in his managerial room at the Regent.  He received me very courteously.  “Yes,” he said in response to my question, “the rumour is quite true.  The principal part in ‘The Orient Pearl’ will be played on the first night by Miss Euclid’s understudy, Miss Olga Cunningham, a young woman of very remarkable talent.  No, Miss Euclid is not ill or even indisposed.  But she and I have had a grave difference of opinion.  The point between us was whether Miss Euclid’s speeches ought to be clearly audible in the auditorium.  I considered they ought.  I may be wrong.  I may be provincial.  But that was and is my view.  At the dress-rehearsal, seated in the gallery, I could not hear her lines.  I objected.  She refused to consider the objection or to proceed with the rehearsal. Hinc illae lachrymae!” ...  “Not at all,” said Mr. Machin in reply to a question, “I have the highest admiration for Miss Euclid’s genius.  I should not presume to dictate to her as to her art.  She has had a very long experience of the stage, very long, and doubtless knows better than I do.  Only, the Regent happens to be my theatre, and I’m responsible for it.  Every member of the audience will have a complete uninterrupted view of the stage, and I intend that every member of the audience shall hear every word that is uttered on the stage.  I’m odd, I know.  But then I’ve a reputation for oddness to keep up.  And by the way, I’m sure that Miss Cunningham will make a great reputation for herself.”