'Well—then—you will understand also what he feels when he has been told that his play is utterly worthless.'
'Who told him that?'
'A great authority—a writer of great reputation—the only living writer whom we have ever known.'
'Well—but—Effie, if a great authority says this, it is frightful.'
'It would be, but for one thing, which you shall hear afterwards. However, he did confess that some of the situations were fine. But the dialogue, he said, was unfitted for the stage, and no manager would so much as look at the play.'
'Poor Archie! What a dreadful blow! What does he say?'
'He is utterly cast down. He sits at home and broods. Sometimes he swears that he will tear up the thing and throw it into the fire; sometimes he recovers a little of his old confidence in it. He will not eat anything, and he does not sleep; and I can find nothing to say that will comfort him. If I knew anyone who would give him another opinion—the play cannot be so bad. Armorel, will you read the play?'
'But, my dear, I am no critic. What would be the good of my reading it?'
'I would rather have your criticism than'—she hesitated—'than anybody's. Because you can feel—and you have the artist's soul; and everybody has not——though he may paint such beautiful pictures,' she added rather obscurely.
'Well, I will read the play, or hear him read it, if you think it will do him any good, Effie. I will go with you at once.'