“I'm rather bewildered,” said she.
“Yes. Nobody knew the play was about all that. But they believe him. Hear them yelling in there. He has put it over. Pete is a serious artist now. He admits it.”
“There was rather a personal animus in the speech. Didn't you think so?”
“Oh, yes. He was talking straight at you. Back last spring I gathered that he was writing the play at you—his original version of it.”
From one landing to another Sue was silent. Then she said:
“I never knew such a contradictory man. Why, he wrote the Nature film. And that is all for freedom.”
The Worm smiled. “Pete never had an idea in his life. He soaks up atmospheres and then, because he is a playwright and a dam' good one, he turns them into plays. He sees nothing but effects. Pete can't think! And then, of course, he sees the main chance. He never misses that. Why, that speech was pure genius. Gives 'em a chance to believe that the stuff they love because it's amusing and makes 'em blubber is really serious and important. Once you can make 'em believe that, you're made. Pete is made, right now. He's a whale of a success. He's going to be rich.”
“But, Henry, they'll see through him.”
“Not for a minute!”
“But—but”—she was laughing a little—“it's outrageous. Here are two successes—right here on Broadway—both by Peter—each a preachment and each flatly contradicting the other. Do you mean to say that somebody won't point it out?”