The little City man smiled, apparently by elongating his eyes. He laid up, for a future dinner table, a condemnation of this young dramatist, as too "opinionated," too "crude."
"Yes?" he answered. "By the way—my daughter is here; she wants so much to talk to you about the play. Will you come?"
Roger had met this daughter once before. He saw her now, an anæmic girl, in a Liberty dress, standing with her nose in the air, amid a mob of first-nighters. She, too, wished to patronise him and to criticise the oracle. The superiority of a girl of nineteen was more than he could stand.
"Thanks," he said. "Afterwards, perhaps. I must be off now with my friend."
He gave a hurried nod, caught O'Neill's arm, and fled. Two men collided in his path and exchanged criticism with each other.
"Hullo, old man," said one; "what do you think of it?"
"I call it a German farce."
"Yes; rather colourless. It opened well."
Further on, a tall, pale, fat woman, with a flagging jowl, talked loudly to two lesser women.
"I call it simply disgusting. I wonder such a piece should be allowed."