Presently the two men rose and walked toward the dining-room, heavy in talk. On the small table beside where they had sat lay the copy of the play. As the swing doors closed behind them Wynne picked it up and started to read.
Messrs. Levis and Passmore stayed long at their meat, and Wynne had read the play from cover to cover before they returned.
It was not often his heart went out to a contemporary’s work, but this was an exception. What he read filled him with delight, envy, and admiration. “Witches”—for so the play was called—possessed the rarest quality. There was wit, imagination, and satire, and it was written with that effortless ease at which all true artists should aim.
As he laid the copy back on the small table Wynne gave vent to an exclamation of indignant resentment, provoked by memories of the proposals Passmore had made in regard to the manner in which he proposed to interpret the work. Here was a thing of real artistic beauty, which was to be subjected to commercial mutilation by a cross-grained fool who had made a reputation by massing crowds in such positions that the centre of the stage was clear for the principals.
His feelings toward Mr. Passmore were not improved when that gentleman and Mr. Levis reoccupied their former chairs, and, warmed by wine, started to discuss their mutual follies.
With silent irritation Wynne rose and left the club. He arrived home about nine o’clock, where he inveighed against managers and producers, and the dunces who dance in high places. In the course of the tirade he explained the cause of his anger.
“There’s a real thing—and it’s good and right, and cram-jam full of exquisite possibilities. Those idiots haven’t begun to understand it—are blind to its beauty—haven’t a notion how good it is. In God’s name, why don’t they let me produce the thing?”
Then Eve had an inspiration which sent Wynne forth into the night, and found him, twenty minutes later, ringing the bell of a house in Clarges Street.
Taking into consideration the clothes he wore, and his general look of dilapidation, his attitude when the door was opened by an important footman was praiseworthy and remarkable.
He simply said “Thank you,” and stepped into the hall. Then he removed his hat and gave it to the man, saying, “Mr. Wynne Rendall.” The bluff resulted in his being ushered into a drawing-room, in which were a number of ladies and gentlemen.