While she was there she met Haines (the man who ran the pastoral players). He had heard of her play from Guy, and was so importunate in his requests to be allowed to read it that she finally gave it to him.
Guy had been right—the need to publish or produce was biological: useless to fight against.
Haines liked it, and wanted to set his company working at it at once.
As one hypnotised, she agreed to all of his suggestions: “Cust says you have a lawn with a view which would make an excellent natural background ... I believe it would be the very thing. It’s a piece that needs very few properties—some cardboard trees for the orchard, a few bottles and phials for Trotaconventos’s house, and an altar to give the effect of a chapel in the last scene ... yes, it should be very nice on your lawn, I think folk will like it.”
Did he say folk? But, of course, it would obviously be a favourite word of his.
So, Folk were to take a hand—Folk were to spring up like mushrooms on the lawn of Plasencia, and embody her dreams!
A little shiver went down her spine.
“I am a fool, I am a fool, I am a fool,” she muttered.