Philip.
Not for ever, Robbie. Whom the press loves die young.
Roope.
It's fickle, you mean—some day it'll turn and rend you? Perhaps. Still, if you make hay while the sun shines——
Philip.
The sun! You don't call that the sun! [Disdainfully.] P'ssh!
Roope.
[Leaving him.] Oh, I've no patience with you! [Spluttering.] Upon my word, your hatred of publicity is—is—is—is morbid. It's worse than morbid—it's Victorian. [Sitting in the chair by the small table.] There! I can't say anything severer.
Philip.
[Advancing.] Yes, but wait a moment, Robbie. Who says I have a hatred of publicity? I haven't said anything so absurd. Don't I write for the public?