It was some months before the club yielded a practical return.
Wynne was seated in the hollow of a deep leather chair, and he overheard two men talking. One was Max Levis, London’s newest impresario, and the other Leonard Passmore, a producer of some standing, whose methods Wynne disapproved of very heartily.
“You’ve read the play?” queried Levis.
“Yes. I should say it was a certainty.”
“Thought you would—that’s capital! Wanted your opinion before writing to Quiltan.”
Wynne knew Quiltan by reputation. His Oxford verses had caused a stir, and the rare appearances of his articles were hailed enthusiastically by press and public alike. Lane Quiltan besides being gifted, was exceedingly well off—a reason, perhaps, for his small literary output.
Max Levis played with the pages of a manuscript copy of the play.
“Formed any views regarding the production?” he asked.
Mr. Passmore had formed many views, and proceeded to expound them at some length. He held forth for the best part of half an hour, while Wynne, from the screen of his chair, silently scorned every word he uttered.
“God!” he thought, “and these are the men who cater art to the nation!”