("His theatre!" thought Edward Henry. "What's he got to do with it?")
"I don't know that I'm so much in love with your 'Intellectual,'" muttered Carlo Trent.
"Aren't you?" protested Rose Euclid, shocked.
"Of course I'm not," said Carlo. "I told you before, and I tell you now, that there's only one name for the theatre—'The Muses' Theatre!'"
"Perhaps you're right!" Rose agreed, as if a swift revelation had come to her. "Yes, you're right."
("She'll make a cheerful sort of partner for a fellow," thought Edward Henry, "if she's in the habit of changing her mind like that every thirty seconds." His appetite had gone. He could only drink.)
"Naturally, I'm right! Aren't we going to open with my play, and isn't my play in verse?... I'm sure you'll agree with me, Mr. Machin, that there is no real drama except the poetical drama."
Edward Henry was entirely at a loss. Indeed, he was drowning in his dressing-gown, so favourable to the composition of hexameters.
"Poetry ..." he vaguely breathed.
"Yes, sir," said Carlo Trent. "Poetry."