Rose. I read a notice of the piece this morning, and I quite agreed with it.
Sir G. What did the notice say?
Rose. It said it was “an admirable play, but that an English version of it was impossible.”
Sir G. Why so?
Rose. “Because”—how did it put it?—oh, “because these vivid but unwholesome pictures of French life have happily no”—something—I forget exactly what—“to the chaste beauty of our English homes.” I can’t remember the precise words, but I know the criticism made me long to see the play.
Sir G. (putting the brief back in its place, after he sees it has caught Philip’s eyes) Of course it filled the theatre?
Lady C. The house was crowded, and the atmosphere was insupportable. (smells bouquet)
Sir G. No doubt; if you were bending all night long over those sickly flowers. (crosses to her—she rises) Give them to me. (takes bouquet) Why, they are almost withered.
(comes, C., with bouquet)