Mr. Jones paused. “I’m very sorry”—began Thyrsis, weakly.
“What’s your idea in refusing?” interrupted the other.
Thyrsis tried to explain—that he had written the play to set forth a certain thesis, and that he was asked to make changes that directly contradicted this thesis.
“Have you ever had a play produced?” demanded the manager abruptly.
“No,” said Thyrsis.
“Have you written any other plays?”
“No.”
“Your first trial! Well, don’t you think it a good deal to expect that your play should be perfect?”
“I don’t think”—began Thyrsis.
“Can’t you see,” persisted the other, “that people who have been in this business all their lives, and have watched thousands of plays succeed and fail, might be able to give you some points on the matter?”—And then Mr. Jones went on to set forth to Thyrsis the laws of the theatrical game—a game in which there was the keenest competition, and in which the “ante” was enormously high. To produce “The Genius” would cost ten thousand dollars at the least; and were those who staked this to have no say whatever in the shaping of the play? Manifestly this was absurd; and as the manager pressed home the argument, Thyrsis felt as if he wanted to get up and run! When Mr. Jones talked to you, he looked you squarely in the eye, and you had a feeling of presumption, even of guilt, in standing out against him. Thyrsis shrunk in terror from that type of personality—he would let it have anything in the world it wanted, so only it would not clash with him. But never before had it demanded one of the children of his dreams!