“Perhaps I shall, when I discover what is above,” he retorted.
The secretary gathered up the plans, and overtook Brainard in the hall. MacNaughton was already there. The old actor’s face was very red; he had not said a single word all the afternoon, and his self-control was making him positively apoplectic. He stalked majestically past the footman, metaphorically shaking the dust of the milk-trust millions from his feet as he crossed the threshold.
“Asses, fools, imbeciles!” he cried, as the three reached the pavement. “What do they know about the drama? About anything but food and drink? They want us to build a theater for them!”
“Rather a frost, wasn’t it, Ned?” Brainard observed, smiling humorously at the secretary.
Farson said nothing; he was too utterly depressed for words. The great social engagement on which he had counted so much had utterly missed fire, and he blamed himself for the fiasco. He should have written Brainard’s remarks for him and rehearsed him carefully beforehand, thus guarding against the “bad breaks” that his employer had been guilty of. And yet he had not expected to encounter such stiff prejudice, such conservatism as took offense at trivialities, and stuck fast on some nonessential detail. But his experience with the “patron” class of society had not been large.
They walked back to Brainard’s little house, and all the way the old Scotsman delivered himself of invective against the leisure class. Brainard remarked once:
“This is a democracy, so called! Art is to be handed to the public on a gilt plate by the upper classes!”
He laughed sardonically.
When they entered the library, the fire was burning cheerily on the hearth. Brainard, taking the roll of plans from his secretary, glanced at the elaborate blueprints and water-color sketches of the palatial theater, which might be built for three millions. Slowly he poked the roll into the flames, and watched it burn until the last bit was licked up. His companions looked on in consternation.
“You are not going to give up?” Farson asked.