Imogen.
I suppose you do.
Tom.
To fashion heroes out of actual, dull, every-day men—the sort of men you see smoking cheroots in the club windows in St. James's Street; and heroines from simple maidens in muslin frocks. Naturally, the managers won't stand that.
Imogen.
Why, of course not.
Tom.
If they did, the public wouldn't.
Imogen.
Is it likely? Is it likely?