“That’s just nonsense,” said David. “You must be talking about pantomime or something. What I was talking about was acting. I must say I’ve no particular desire to amuse anyone, I just want to get on with it, that’s all.”

“It’s easy to tell,” said Michael, “that you’re not used to playing for live audiences. You’ve spent all your life in front of cameras, that’s what’s the trouble with you. That’s what’s the trouble with the theatre these days, people like Wyndham Farrar keep importing all these great stars of screen” (glowering at Neville) “and telly and expect them to be able to turn out a good stage performance, just like that. Stage acting is an art, a lost art; it’s been ruined by all you lot who think it’s just an easy way of earning a lot of money.”

“What in Christ’s name do you think you’re talking about?” said David belligerently. “Where do you think I started off? Do you think I began as a BBC extra or something? I’ve played in just about every bloody rep in this bloody country. I’d been at it three years before I ever saw the inside of a television studio.”

“Three years?” said Michael, who had been on the stage for twenty. “Three years? Do you think you can learn anything in three years?”

“Of course you can,” said David, “if you’ve got your wits about you.”

I held my breath: I could see him toying with the idea of saying, “I’ve learned more in three than you in thirty,” and I could not bear the prospect of the inevitable ensuing flabby wounded collapse. No more apparently could David, for he went on:

“And what I learned was that you must always, always be yourself. Whether you’re playing to fifty in Oldham or five million or fifty million, there’s nothing else you have to offer but yourself, so that’s what you have to give. And to hell with inflections and upstaging and all that bloody moronic nonsense. That’s all a bloody waste of time if you ask me, you can learn all about that in a week in any old rep in England.”

Michael was too annoyed to reply immediately, and Julian took up this bristly challenge in a reedy, girlish voice.

“I don’t see why,” he said, “you should think that yourself is so wonderful. After all, the public pays to see a play, doesn’t it, not to see David Evans or—er—or Laurence Olivier.”