“Then,” said Rossiter, “she began young and it comes to the same thing. What’s a play-going generation? Five years? Very well, for a generation of playgoers she’s been doing demure flappers and it’s time she did something else and time somebody else did the flappers. And can she do anything else? Can she? I’ll tell you in one word what’s the matter with Mary—virginity.”
Mr. Chown could only bow his head in sorrowing agreement. “She is immoderate,” he said gloomily and Rossiter stared at him, finding the adjective surprising until, “‘Everything in moderation, including virginity,’” quoted Chown.
“Is that your own?” asked Rossiter with relish.
But Chown disclaimed originality and even personal knowledge of his mot’s authorship. He did not read books. He read life and, especially on Thursdays, the Daily Telegraph. “The man who said it to me said it was Samuel Butler’s.”
“It’s good,” pronounced Rossiter, writing the name down. “I’ll get Drayton to write to this man Butler and see if he’ll do me a libretto. I like his flavor.”
“I’m afraid he’s dead,” said Chown.
“Oh, this war!” grieved Rossiter. “This awful war! Is it to take all our promising young men? Well, to come back to Mary. I want to cast her for Teresa and now, candidly, she being what she is, can I?”
“No,” agreed Chown.
“There it is! Waste. Constriction of her possibilities. I wish you’d make her see that it’s bad for her art. You and I have to watch over our young women like fathers. You brought this girl to me and I’ve endorsed your judgment so far: but she’s got no future if she doesn’t mend her ways. I’ve been thinking of reviving ‘The Duchess of Dantzic.’”
“For her?” gasped Chown. “Mary to play Sans-Gene?”