"Mr. Naldrett?" said the interviewer, taking a long shot. "I recognised you by your portrait in The Bibliophile. A lucky meeting. Perhaps you didn't get my telegram. I called round at your rooms just now, but you were out. I want to ask you about your play The Matron. It attracted considerable attention. Will you please tell me if you have any particular ideas about tragedy?"
"Yes," said Roger; "I have. And I'm going to express them. I'm in a great hurry; and I must refuse to be interviewed. Please thank your editor from me for the honour he has done me; but tell him that I cannot be interviewed."
"Certainly not, since you wish it," said the journalist. "But I would like to ask you one thing. I am told your play is very morbid. Are you morbid? You don't look very morbid."
"I am sorry," said Roger. "But I am not morbid."
"Mr. Naldrett," said the journalist, "are you going to write any more tragedies like The Roman Matron?"
"I have one finished and one half finished," said Roger.
"I hope, Mr. Naldrett," said the journalist, "that you have written them for ordinary people, as well as to please yourself. Writing to please one's self is very artistic. But won't you consider Clapham, and Balham, and Tooting? How will you please them with tragedies? A good comedy is what people like. They want something to laugh at, after their day's work. They're quite right. A good comedy's the thing. Anybody can write a tragedy. What's the good of making people gloomy? One wants the pleasant things of life, Mr. Naldrett, on the stage. One goes to the theatre to be amused. There's enough tragedy in real life without one getting more in the theatre. I suppose you've studied Ibsen, Mr. Naldrett?"
"Have not you?"
"I don't believe in him. He may be a thinker and all that, but his view of life is very morbid. He is a decadent. Of course, they say his technique is very fine. But he has a mind like a sewer."
"Quite ready, sir," said the chauffeur, swinging himself into his seat.