“This is no laughing matter,” she protested. “Have you seen the play?”
“No. I’ll go to-night.”
“Don’t. It’s rotten.”
“Heavens!” he cried in mock dismay. “What does this mean? Our most brilliant young—”
“And I’m as bad as the play—almost. The part doesn’t fit me. It’s a fool part.”
“Are you quarreling with The Patriot because it has tempered justice with mercy in your case?”
“Mercy? With slush. Slathering slush.”
“Come to my aid, Memory! Was it not a certain Miss Raleigh who aforetime denounced the ruffian Gurney for that he vented his wit upon a play in which she appeared. And now, because—”
“Yes; it was. I’ve no use for the smart-aleck school of criticism. But, at least, what Gurney wrote was his own. And Haslett, even if he is an old grouch, was honest. You couldn’t buy their opinions over the counter.”
Banneker frowned. “I think you’d better explain, Betty.”