Amicia. It’s a morceau de vie, as the French say.
Auberon. Oh, don’t begin on the French!
Amicia. It’s a French experiment—que voulez-vous?
Auberon. English experiments will do.
Dorriforth. No doubt they would—if there were any. But I don’t see them.
Amicia. Fortunately: think what some of them might be! Though Florentia saw nothing I saw many things in this poor little shabby “Due d’Enghien,” coming over to our roaring London, where the dots have to be so big on the i’s, with its barely audible note of originality. It appealed to me, touched me, offered me a poignant suggestion of the way things happen in life.
Auberon. In life they happen clumsily, stupidly, meanly. One goes to the theatre just for the refreshment of seeing them happen in another way—in symmetrical, satisfactory form, with unmistakable effect and just at the right moment.
Dorriforth. It shows how the same cause may produce the most diverse consequences. In this truth lies the only hope of art.
Auberon. Oh, art, art—don’t talk about art!
Amicia. Mercy, we must talk about something!