He was not, however, much worse than the general run of people. Like them he knew only enough of Shakespeare to be able to misquote him now and again; and, like them, he believed that. Darwinism meant nothing more than that men had once been monkeys.
Harold looked at Archie, and felt that Mrs. Mowbray was a fortunate woman in having met with him. The monument was being raised, Harold felt; and he was right. The management of the Legitimate-Theatre was a memorial to Vanity working heart, and soul with Ignorance to the praise and glory of Shakespeare.
CHAPTER XXXI.—ON A BLACK SHEEP.
B EFORE Archie had completed his confidences, a visitor was announced.
“Oh, it’s only old Playdell,” said Archie. “You know old Playdell, of course.”
“I’m not so certain that I do,” said Harold.
“Oh, he’s a good old soul who was kicked out of the Church by the bishop for doing something or other. He’s useful to me—keeps my correspondence in order—spots the chaps that write the begging letters, and sees that they don’t get anything out of me, while he takes care that all the genuine ones get all that they deserve. He’s an Oxford man.”
“Playdell—Playdell,” said Harold. “Surely he can’t be the fellow that got run out for marrying people without a licence?”