P. It’s another interminable manuscript from Arthur Welby. That man is a menace to society. He ought to be incarcerated. He keeps several novels on the go all the time. They have been rejected by every publisher on the continent, I believe. He calls himself an author.
Miss B. But pardon me. He has published one book.
P. Oh yes, a book’s a book although there’s nothing in it.
Miss B. But there is something in that one. It made me weep.
P. Yes, and it made his publisher weep too. Had to sell it for old paper at one cent a pound. (Rings bell again.) Where on earth is that boy!
Miss B. Well, I don’t care, I liked Welby’s book.
P. Oh, some people will like anything. (Miss B. stares.) I mean, some sloppy critic called Welby the American Dumas and that ruined him. Instead of making his books smooth and—
Miss. B. And stupid!
P. No, in good form, flowing and soothing, he crams them full of stirring scenes in imitation of the old school. If I had to bring out Dumas with his sensationalism, and Dickens with his exaggerations—well they wouldn’t be brought out, that’s certain. (Jabs bell viciously.) Where is that boy? Asleep again I suppose.
Enter office boy, R.