"That's O'Donnell, of The Box Office. He's the man who did for poor Wentworth's thing. I called him out in Paris. He wouldn't come."
"Really, John?"
"Oh, you're too young; you don't remember. He wrote everywhere. He wrote a vile tract called Drama and Decency. He nearly got Wentworth prosecuted."
"I've heard of that! So O'Donnell wrote that?"
"He did."
"Who are the others?"
"Obscure dailies and illustrateds."
A little grey man, with nervous eyes, came up to Roger, claiming acquaintance on the strength of one previous meeting. He began to talk to Roger with the easy patronage of one who, though impotent in art himself, and without a divine idea in him, has the taste of his society, its gossip, its critical cant, and an acquaintance with some of its minor bards.
"You mustn't be discouraged," he said, with implied intellectual superiority; "I hear you have quite a little following. How do you like the acting? I don't like Miss Hanlon's acting myself. Did you choose her?" As he spoke his eyes wandered over O'Neill, who stood apart, with his back half turned to them. It was evident that he knew O'Neill by sight, and wished to be introduced to him. Roger remembered how this man had called O'Neill a charlatan. An insult rose to his lips. Who was this fumbling little City man, with his Surrey villa and collection of Meryon etchings, to patronise, and condemn, and to bid him not to be discouraged?
"Yes," he said coldly. "I wrote the play for her. She's the only tragic actress you've had here since Miss Cushman."