Miss Woodward.
[Reading.] “The pity of it is that Mr. Theodore Bellevue seems to enjoy a positively huge contentment of his own achievement——”
Parbury.
[Thinking.] The pity of it—yes—yes, of his own achievement. Yes. [Walks the stage.] Achievement [Under his breath.] Damn the street singers! Damn the telephone! [Aloud.] What is it? Oh—ah! Contentment of his own achievement—er—er— [Dictates.] “One gathers from the complacency of his manner—[Pause]—that his iconoclasm is its own reward—” Er—“What follows in the approval of the unthinking—the applause of the uncultured—” [Pause.] What’s that?
Miss Woodward.
The applause of the uncultured.
Parbury.
“Makes up—makes up—” Er— [Pulls his hair.] Er——
Enter Mrs. Parbury, L. She is a pretty, fragile, little woman of about twenty-eight, and is charmingly dressed.