"He says that— Oh, you know what Collins says. He says that you— I believe I've got it on me. I cut it out. Where did I put it?"
"Never mind. I'm not interested in Collins."
"Aren't you? He's very good. I suppose your play'll be produced again later?"
"I think not."
He got rid of the poet, paid his bill, and walked out. Outside he ran into Hollins, the critic of The Week. He would have avoided Hollins, but Hollins stopped him.
"Ah, Naldrett," he said. "I've just been going for you in The Week. What do you mean by that third act? Really. It really was—"
It gave Roger a kind of awe to think that this man had been damning other people's acts before he was born.
"What was wrong with the third act? You didn't hear it."
"You must read M. Capus," said Hollins, passing on. "I shall go for you until you do."
A newsboy, with a voice like a bird of doom, flying in the night, held a coloured bill. "Drama and Decency," ran the big letters. Another, offering a copy, shewed, as allurement, "'ceful Fracas." The whole town seemed angry with him. He crossed into Seven Dials, and along to St. Martin's Lane, where he knew of a quiet reading-room. Here he hid.