“Then they had better not come to my theatre,” said Edward Henry.

“All which,” commented Sir John, “gives me no clue whatever to the reason why you are sitting here by my side and calmly eating my eggs and toast, and drinking my coffee.”

Admittedly, Edward Henry was nervous.  Admittedly, he was a provincial in the presence of one of the most illustrious personages in the Empire.  Nevertheless, he controlled his nervousness, and reflected: 

“Nobody else from the Five Towns would or could have done what I am doing.  Moreover, this chap is a mountebank.  In the Five Towns they would kow-tow to him, but they would laugh at him.  They would mighty soon add him up.  Why should I be nervous?  I’m as good as he is.”  He finished with the thought which has inspired many a timid man with new courage in a desperate crisis:  “The fellow can’t eat me.”

Then he said aloud: 

“I want to ask you a question, Sir John.”

“One?”

“One.  Are you the head of the theatrical profession, or is Sir Gerald Pompey?”

“Sir Gerald Pompey?”

“Sir Gerald Pompey.  Haven’t you seen the papers this morning?”

Sir John Pilgrim turned pale.  Springing up, he seized the topmost of an undisturbed pile of daily papers, and feverishly opened it.

“Bah!” he muttered.

He was continually thus imitating his own behaviour on the stage.  The origin of his renowned breakfasts lay in the fact that he had once played the part of a millionaire-ambassador who juggled at breakfast with his own affairs and the affairs of the world.  The stage-breakfast of a millionaire-ambassador created by a playwright on the verge of bankruptcy had appealed to his imagination and influenced all the mornings of his life.

“They’ve done it just to irritate me as I’m starting off on my world’s tour,” he muttered, coursing round the table.  Then he stopped and gazed at Edward Henry.  “This is a political knighthood,” said he.  “It has nothing to do with the stage.  It is not like my knighthood, is it?”

“Certainly not,” Edward Henry agreed.  “But you know how people will talk, Sir John.  People will be going about this very morning and saying that Sir Gerald is at last the head of the theatrical profession.  I came here for your authoritative opinion.  I know you’re unbiased.”

Sir John resumed his chair.

“As for Pompey’s qualifications as a head,” he murmured, “I know nothing of them.  I fancy his heart is excellent.  I only saw him twice, once in his own theatre, and once in Bond Street.  I should be inclined to say that on the stage he looks more like a gentleman than any gentleman ought to look, and that in the street he might be mistaken for an actor....  How will that suit you?”

“It’s a clue,” said Edward Henry.

“Alderman!” exclaimed Sir John, “I believe that if I didn’t keep a firm hand on myself I should soon begin to like you.  Have another cup of coffee.  Chung!...  Good-bye, Bootmaker, good-bye!”