borough away through the country--a black country
indeed--through Woodhouse and Lumley and Hathersedge, to Rapton.
When once this tramway-system was working, he would have a supply of
youths and lasses always on tap, as it were. So he spread his
rainbow wings towards the future, and began to say:

"When we've got the trams, I shall buy a new machine and finer
lenses, and I shall extend my premises."

Mr. May did not talk business to Alvina. He was terribly secretive
with respect to business. But he said to her once, in the early year
following their opening:

"Well, how do you think we're doing, Miss Houghton?"

"We're not doing any better than we did at first, I think," she
said.

"No," he answered. "No! That's true. That's perfectly true. But why?
They seem to like the programs."

"I think they do," said Alvina. "I think they like them when they're
there. But isn't it funny, they don't seem to want to come to them.
I know they always talk as if we were second-rate. And they only
come because they can't get to the Empire, or up to Hathersedge.
We're a stop-gap. I know we are."

Mr. May looked down in the mouth. He cocked his blue eyes at her,
miserable and frightened. Failure began to frighten him abjectly.

"Why do you think that is?" he said.

"I don't believe they like the turns," she said.

"But _look_ how they applaud them! _Look_ how pleased they are!"

"I know. I know they like them once they're there, and they see
them. But they don't come again. They crowd the Empire--and the
Empire is only pictures now; and it's much cheaper to run."

He watched her dismally.

"I can't believe they want nothing but pictures. I can't believe
they want everything in the flat," he said, coaxing and miserable.
He himself was not interested in the film. His interest was still
the human interest in living performers and their living feats.
"Why," he continued, "they are ever so much more excited after a
good turn, than after any film."

"I know they are," said Alvina. "But I don't believe they want to be
excited in that way."

"In what way?" asked Mr. May plaintively.

"By the things which the artistes do. I believe they're jealous."

"Oh nonsense!" exploded Mr. May, starting as if he had been shot.
Then he laid his hand on her arm. "But forgive my rudeness! I don't
mean it, of _cauce_! But do you mean to say that these collier louts
and factory girls are jealous of the things the artistes do, because
they co