Peregrine was dark, tall and rather mischievous in appearance. Jeremy was of medium stature, reddish in complexion and fairly truculent. Behind a prim demeanour he concealed an amorous inclination. They were of the same age: twenty-seven. Their flat occupied the top story of a converted warehouse on Thames-side east of Blackfriars. It was from their studio window, about a week ago, that Peregrine, idly, exploring the South Bank through a pair of field-glasses, had spotted the stage-house of The Dolphin, recognized it for what it was and hunted it down. He now walked over to the window.
“I can just see it,” he said. “There it is. I spent the most hideous half hour of my life, so far, inside that theatre. I ought to hate the sight of it but, by God, I yearn after it as I’ve never yearned after anything ever before. You know, if Conducis does pull it down I honestly don’t believe I’ll be able to stay here and see it happen.”
“Shall we wait upon him and crash down on our knees before him crying, ‘Oh, sir, please sir, spare The Dolphin, pray do, sir’?”
“I can tell you exactly what the reaction would be. He’d back away as if we smelt and say in that deadpan voice of his that he knew nothing of such matters.”
“I wonder what it would cost.”
“To restore it? Hundreds of thousands no doubt,” Peregrine said gloomily. “I wonder if National Theatre has so much as thought of it. Or somebody. Isn’t there a society that preserves Ancient Monuments?”
“Yes. But ‘I know nothing of such matters,’ ” mocked Jeremy. He turned back to his model. With a degree of regret to which wild horses wouldn’t have persuaded him to confess, Peregrine began packing Mr. Conducis’s suit. It was a dark charcoal tweed and had been made by a princely tailor. He had washed and ironed the socks, undergarments and shirt that he had worn for about forty minutes and had taken a box that Jeremy was hoarding to make up the parcel.
“I’ll get a messenger to deliver it,” he said.
“Why on earth?”
“I don’t know. Too bloody shy to go myself.”
“You’d only have to hand it over to the gilded lackey.”
“I’d feel an ass.”
“You’re mad,” said Jeremy briefly.
“I don’t want to go back there. It was all so rum. Rather wonderful, of course, but in a way rather sinister. Like some wish-fulfillment novel.”
“The wide-eyed young dramatist and the kindly recluse.”
“I don’t think Conducis is kindly but I will allow and must admit I was wide-eyed over the glove. You know what?”
“What?”
“It’s given me an idea.”
“Has it, now? Idea for what?”
“A play. I don’t want to discuss it”
“One must never discuss too soon, of course,” Jeremy agreed. “That way abortion lies.”
“You have your points.”
In the silence that followed they both heard the metallic clap of the letter box downstairs.
“Post,” said Jeremy.
“Won’t be anything for us.”
“Bills.”
“I don’t count them. I daren’t,” said Peregrine.
“There might be a letter from Mr. Conducis offering to adopt you.”
“Heh, heh, heh.”
“Do go and see,” Jeremy said. “I find you rather oppressive when you’re clucky. The run downstairs will do you good.”
Peregrine wandered twice round the room and absently out at the door. He went slowly down their decrepit staircase and fished in their letter box. There were three bills (two, he saw, for himself), a circular and a typed letter.
“Peregrine Jay, Esq. By Hand”
For some reason that he could not have defined, he didn’t open the letter. He went out-of-doors and walked along their uneventful street until he came to a gap through which one could look across the river to Southwark. He remembered afterwards that his bitch-muse as he liked to call her was winding her claws in his hair. He stared unseeing at a warehouse that from here partly obscured The Dolphin: Phipps Bros., perhaps, where the man with the oilcan—Jobbins—worked. A wind off the river whipped his hair back. Somewhere downstream a hooting set up. Why, he wondered idly, do river-craft set up gaggles of hooting all at once? His right hand was in his jacket pocket and his fingers played with the letter.
With an odd sensation of taking some prodigious step he suddenly pulled it out of his pocket and opened it.
Five minutes later Jeremy heard their front door slam and Peregrine come plunging up the stairs. He arrived, white-faced and apparently without the power of speech.
“What now, for pity’s sake,” Jeremy asked. “Has Conducis tried to kidnap you?”
Peregrine thrust a sheet of letter paper into his hand.
“Go on,” he said. “Bloody read it, will you. Go on.” Jeremy read.
Dear Sir,
I am directed by Mr. V. M. G. Conducis to inform you that he has given some consideration to the matter of The Dolphin Theatre, Wharfingers Lane, which he had occasion to discuss with you this morning. Mr. Conducis would be interested to have the matter examined in greater detail. He suggests, therefore, that to this end you call at the offices of Consolidated Oils, Pty. Ltd., and speak to Mr. S. Greenslade who has been fully informed of the subject in question. I enclose for your convenience a card with the address and a note of introduction.
I have ventured to make an appointment for you with Mr. Greenslade for 11:30 tomorrow (Wednesday). If this is not a convenient time, perhaps you will be good enough to telephone Mr. Greenslade’s secretary before 5:30 this evening.
Mr. Conducis asks me to beg that you will not trouble yourself to return the things he was glad to be able to offer after your most disagreeable accident for which, as he no doubt explained, he feels a deep sense of responsibility. He understands that your own clothes have been irretrievably spoilt and hopes that you will allow him to make what he feels is a most inadequate gesture by way of compensation. The clothes, by the way, have not been worn. If, however, you would prefer it, he hopes that you will allow him to replace your loss in a more conventional manner.
Mr. Conducis will not himself take a direct part in any developments that may arise in respect of The Dolphin and does not wish at any juncture to be approached in the matter. Mr. Greenslade has full authority to negotiate for him at all levels.
With compliments, I am.
Yours truly,
Mr. Smythiman
Private Secretary to Mr. Conducis
“Not true,” Jeremy said, looking over the tops of his spectacles.
“True. Apparently. As far as it goes.”
Jeremy read it again. “Well,” he said, “at least he doesn’t want you to approach him. We’ve done him wrong, there.”
“He doesn’t want to set eyes on me, thank God.”
“Were you passionately eloquent, my poor Peregrine?”
“It looks as if I must have been, doesn’t it? I was plastered, of course.”
“I have a notion,” Jeremy said with inconsequence, “that he was once wrecked at sea.”
“Who?”
“Conducis, you dolt. Who but? In his yacht.”
“Was his yacht called Kalliope?”
“I rather think so. I’m sure it went down.”
“Perhaps my predicament reminded him of the experience.”
“You know,” Jeremy said, “I can’t really imagine why we’re making such a thing of this. After all, what’s happened? You look at a derelict theatre. You fall into a fetid well from which you are extricated by the owner who is a multi-millionaire. You urge in your simple way the graces and excellence of the theatre. He wonders if before he pulls it down, it might just be worth getting another opinion. He turns you over to one of his myrmidons. Where’s the need for all the agitation?”