They reached London soon after midday and went to lunch at a restaurant in Jermyn Street famous for a Russian salad that Father Rowley sometimes spoke of with affection in Chatsea. After lunch they went to a matinée of Pelleas and Mélisande, the Missioner having been given two stalls by an actor friend. Mark enjoyed the play and was being stirred by the imagination of old, unhappy, far off things until his companion began to laugh. Several clever women who looked as if they had been dragged through a hedge said "Hush!"; even Mark, compassionate of the players' feelings should they hear Father Rowley laugh at the poignant nonsense they were uttering on the stage, begged him to control himself.
"But this is most unending rubbish," he said. "I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. Terrible."
The curtain fell on the act at this moment, so that Father Rowley was able to give louder voice to his opinions.
"This is unspeakable bosh," he repeated. "I can't understand anything at all that is going on. People run on and run off again and make the most idiotic remarks. I really don't think I can stand any more of this."
The clever women rattled their beads and writhed their necks like angry snakes without effect upon the Missioner.
"I don't think I can stand any more of this," he repeated. "I shall have apoplexy if this goes on."
The clever women hissed angrily about the kind of people that came to theatres nowadays.
"This man Maeterlinck must have escaped from an asylum," Father Rowley went on. "I never heard such deplorable nonsense in my life."
"I shall ask an attendant if we can change our seats," snapped one of the clever women in front. "That's the worst of coming to a Saturday afternoon performance, such extraordinary people come up to town on Saturdays."
"There you are," exclaimed Father Rowley loudly, "even that poor woman in front thinks they're extraordinary."