Mr. T. Well, I've always said—So long as you give the Public a really first-rate article, and are prepared to spend any amount of money on pushing it, you know, you're sure to see a handsome return for your outlay—in the long run. And you see, I've had this carefully analysed, by competent judges—
Mrs. M.G. Ah, but you can feel independent of criticism, can't you?
Mr. T. Oh, I defy anyone to find anything unwholesome in it—it's as suitable for the most delicate child as it is for adults—nothing to irritate the most sensitive—
Mrs. M.G. Ah, you mean certain critics are so thin-skinned—they are indeed!
Mr. T. (warming to his subject). But the beauty of this particular composition is that it causes absolutely no unpleasantness or inconvenience afterwards. In some cases, indeed, it acts like a charm. I've known of two cases of long-standing erysipelas it has completely cured.
Mrs. M.G. (rather at sea). How gratifying that must be. But that is the magic of all truly great work, it is such an anodyne—it takes people so completely out of themselves—doesn't it?
Mr. T. It takes anything of that sort out of them, Ma'am. It's the finest discovery of the age, no household will be without it in a few months—though perhaps I say it who shouldn't.
Mrs. M.G. (still more astonished). Oh, but I like to hear you. I'm so tired of hearing people pretending to disparage what they have done, it's such a pose, and I hate posing. Real genius is never modest. (If he had been more retiring, she would have, of course, reversed this axiom.) I wish you would come and see me on one of my Tuesdays, Mr. TABLETT, I should feel so honoured, and I think you would meet some congenial spirits—do look in some evening—I will send you a card if I may—let me see—could you come and lunch next Sunday? I've got a little man coming who was very nearly eaten up by cannibals. I think he would interest you.
Mr. T. I shall be proud to meet him. Er—did they eat much of him?