Sir Randle.
[Closing his eyes.] A terrible picture!
Lady Filson.
[Closing her eyes.] Terrible.
Philip.
It shows the bishop and the judge playing to the gallery, the politician adopting the methods of the cheap-jack, the duchess vying with the puffing draper; it shows how even true genius submits itself to conditions that are accepted and excused as "modern," and is found elbowing and pushing in the hurly-burly. It shows how the ordinary decencies of life are sacrificed to the paragraphist, the interviewer, and the ghoul with the camera; how the home is stripped of its sanctity, blessed charity made a vehicle for display, the very grave-yard transformed into a parade ground; while the outsider looks on with a sinking of the vitals because the drumstick is beyond his reach and the bom-bom-bom is not for him! It shows——! [Checking himself and leaving the arm-chair with a short laugh.] Oh, well, that's the setting of my story, Sir Randle! I won't inflict the details upon you.
Sir Randle.
Er—h'm—[expansively] an excellent theme, Mr. Mackworth; a most promising theme! [To Lady Filson.] Eh, Winifred?
Lady Filson.
[Politely.] Excellent; quite, quite excellent!