"Oswald," said Helen, "there's a problem play being staged in my bed-room."
"Marie Cliff and Harry Belter," explained Stephanie in a low voice.
Grismer was visibly astonished.
"That's amusing," he said pleasantly.
"Isn't it?" said Helen. "I don't know whether I'm pleased. She's such a little brick! And Harry has lived as he pleased.... Oh, Lord! Men are queer. People sneer at a problem play, but everybody ever born is cast for some typical problem-play part. And sooner or later, well or badly, they play it."
"Critics talk rot; why expect more of the public?" inquired Grismer. "And isn't it funny what a row they make about sex? After all, that's what the world is composed of, two sexes, with a landscape or marine background. What else is there to write about, Cleland?"
The latter laughed:
"It merely remains a matter of good taste. You sculptors have more latitude than painters; painters more than we writers. Pathology should be used sparingly in fiction—all sciences, in fact. Like a clove of garlic applied to a salad bowl, a touch of science is sufficient to flavour art; more than that makes it reek. Better cut out the art altogether if the science fascinates you, and be the author of 'works' instead of mere books."
Stephanie, watching Cleland while he was speaking, nodded:
"Yes," she said, "one could write fiction about a hospital nurse, but not about nursing. It wouldn't have any value."