That is, at least, how Mr. Arthur Mackwayte struck his friends in
private life. Once a week, however, he fairly screamed at the
public from the advertisement columns of "The Referee":
"Mackwayte, in his Celebrated Kerbstone Sketches. Wit! Pathos!
Tragedy!!! The Epitome of London Life. Universally Acclaimed as
the Greatest Portrayer of London Characters since the late Chas.
Dickens. In Tremendous Demand for Public Dinners. The Popular
Favorite. A Few Dates still Vacant. 23, Laleham Villas, Seven
Kings. 'Phone" and so on.
But only professionally did Mr. Mackwayte thus blow his own
trumpet, and then in print alone. For the rest, he had nothing
great about him but his heart. A long and bitter struggle for
existence had left no hardness in his smooth-shaven flexible
face, only wrinkles. His eyes were gray and keen and honest, his
mouth as tender as a woman's.
His daughter, Barbara, was already at table pouring out the
tea--high tea is still an institution in music-hall circles. Mr.
Mackwayte always gazed on this tall, handsome daughter of his
with amazement as the great miracle of his life. He looked at her
now fondly and thought how.... how distinguished, yes, that was
the word, she looked in the trim blue serge suit in which she
went daily to her work at the War Office.
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