O.W. Not at all; a charming experiment. Forgetfulness is a great gift. While he exercises it, we have more time for being happy where we are than we should otherwise have allowed ourselves. Who is our benefactor?
R.R. I thought you might like to meet Harvey Jerrold again. I was keeping it behind the ortolans as a surprise for you.
(The name has evoked a look of eager, almost of startled, pleasure; and response comes with animation.)
O.W. My dear Robbie; but how inventive of you! What a finishing touch to a circle which already seemed complete! I did not know that he was here.
R.R. He only arrived last night. I ’phoned to his hotel and left a message for him asking him to join us. This morning he sent word that he would come.
O.W. (with just a shade of doubt in his tone). Did you tell him who we all were?
R.R. I only said “friends.” He knows all of us.
O.W. If he has not, in the exercise of his gift, forgotten some of us. That—as I remember him—is possible.
R.R. He can’t have forgotten you, at any rate, considering it was you who published his first plays for him. Or did you only write them?
O.W. Ah! but he has done so much better since. Suppose he were now ashamed of them. He was one of those—true artists—who make a reputation before they do anything. That is the right way to begin; but few have the courage to persevere. It is so difficult. Yet he, of course, is the most complete artist who is able to remain perfect—doing nothing.