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"This is a beautiful box," said Eve to him, amazed at the grandeur of the receptacle into which they had been ushered. "It's Mr. Chown's own box." "Then isn't Mr. Chown to be here to-night?" "No! He went to Paris this morning for a rest. The acting manager will telephone to him after each act. That's how he always does, you know." "When the cat's away the mice will play," thought Mr.
You know, the one at the end of the row. Twice she spoiled my exit by getting in the way. And you've got to throw her out, and take it from me. She does it on purpose." "I can't throw her out without Mr. Chown's orders, and Mr. Chown's in Paris." "Then you refuse?" A pause. "Yes." "Then I'm not going on again to-night, not if I know it. I'm not going to be insulted in my own theatre."
"The waverers can hardly doubt between Tobias Liversedge and Hugh Welwyn-Baker." "Bear in mind," rang Mr. Chown's brassy voice, "that it's by no means certain Liversedge is to be our candidate. I am in a position to assure you that many of our most reliable men are not at all satisfied with that choice not at all satisfied.
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