“Of course it must be acted; it’s much better than having to struggle with publishers, that’s the devil—cracking one’s knuckles against the Bodley Head, tilting with Mr. Heinemann’s Windmill, foundering in Mr. Murray’s Ship ... it’s....”
“But nothing would induce me to have it either published or acted. It’s just for myself.”
“Oh, but you’ll change your mind when it’s finished—it’s biological, one can’t help it; the act of parturition isn’t complete till the thing is published or produced—you’ll see. I was up at Cambridge with the chap who has started this company of strolling players—they’re very ‘cultured’ and ‘pure’ and all that sort of thing, but they don’t act badly. If you send it to him, I’ll tell him he must produce it. They might come and do it here—on the lawn.”
“No! no! no!” she cried in terror, “I couldn’t bear it. I don’t want it acted at all.”
He looked at her, a little impishly: “You mark my words, it will be acted ... here on the lawn.”