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"
"Of whom, then?"
"Of yourself."
"I am flattered, sir. And in what capacity are you thinking of me?"
There was something too sleek and oily in Binet's voice for
Andre-Louis' taste.
"I am thinking of you in the part of Scaramouche."
"Day-dreams," said Andre-Louis. "You are amusing yourself, of
course."
"Not in the least. I am quite serious."
"But I am not an actor."
"You told me that you could be."
"Oh, upon occasion... a small part, perhaps... "
"Well, here is a big part - the chance to arrive at a single stride.
How many men have had such a chance?"
"It is a chance I do not covet, M. Binet. Shall we change the
subject?" He was very frosty, as much perhaps because he scented
in M. Binet's manner something that was vaguely menacing as for any
other reason.
"We'll change the subject when I please," said M. Binet, allowing a
glimpse of steel to glimmer through the silk of him. "To-morrow
night you play Scaramouche. You are ready enough in your wits, your
figure is ideal, and you have just the kind of mordant humour for
the part.


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