Miser Farebrother (Vol. 1-3). B. L. Farjeon

but in the way they happen. Quite unexpectedly, Kiss—quite unexpectedly. Now what do the critics say about the piece—just by way of example—I've been playing in my walk home from the bank? But it's rather foolish of me to ask you such a question, as you are in complete ignorance of the kind of piece it is."

      "Wrong, Leth, wrong. I know a great deal about it; more than you are aware of."

      "Really?"

      "Really, and in very truth, my liege lord."

      "Now this is interesting. It is quite a pleasure, meeting you in this way. Go on about my piece."

      "First and foremost," said Kiss, "to settle the style of it. I pronounce that it is not a tragedy."

      "Right; it is not."

      "It is not a farce."

      "Nothing like it—that is, broadly speaking."

      "I am speaking broadly. It is not a blood-thirsty melodrama, with a murder in it, and a wedding; or, if not that, a pair of lovers, just about to be tied together; or, if not that, a husband and wife torn from each other's arms. It amounts to the same thing, because the main point is that the man is falsely accused of the murder."

      "Of course he is," said Mr. Lethbridge, "or where should we be?"

      "Exactly," said Kiss, with a humorous imitation of Mr. Lethbridge's manner. "If that was not the case, where should we be? Worth considering. Perhaps worse off; perhaps better. I will not take it upon myself to judge. We are talking now of the regulation pattern—good old style, Leth, but old. Would stand a bad chance if it were not for the magnificent scenery and the wonderful dresses, mechanical changes, houses turned inside out, exteriors turned outside in, gas lowered to vanishing point to assist the delusion—splendid opportunity that for the lover and his lass, in the pit! Wish I was young again, and before the foot-lights, instead of behind them, so that I might take my imaginary little girl (whom I adore, from the crown of her pretty head to the tips of her little shoes) to the pit when such a melodrama, with the lights turned down, is being played. When I say 'regulation pattern,' Leth, don't mistake me; I am not speaking against it. As for originality—well, perhaps the least said about it the better. We were rehearsing a new melodrama the other day, and the subject cropped up on the stage. The scene-painter was there, and he took part in the discussion, though he spoke never a word."

      "How could he do that without speaking?"

      "Well, he winked."

      "I don't see much in that," observed Mr. Lethbridge, somewhat mystified.

      "Of course you don't, the reason being "—and good humour beamed in every feature of Kiss's merry face—"that you are not, like myself, a cynic."

      "Come, that's good," protested Mr. Lethbridge: "you a cynic!"

      "I would not have my enemies say so," said Kiss; "and don't you betray me at home. So it is settled that your piece is not a tragedy, nor a broad farce, nor a melodrama with a murder in it. Nor is it a comedy of character, bristling with smart sayings—everybody saying clever, ill-natured things about everybody else. No, Leth; your piece is a simple domestic drama, lighted up by the sweetest stars of life—the stars of pure love and a happy home."

      "You have," said Mr. Lethbridge, stirred by the feeling which his friend threw into the words, "a remarkable felicity of expression. You are almost—a poet."

      "A bread-and-butter poet, then. Yes; a simple drama of domestic life, upon which the stars of love and home are shining. That's what the critics say the next morning: 'It is refreshing to come across a play so sweet, so natural, so human. Here are no high flights of the imagination; no violent twisting of ordinary events to serve a startling purpose; no dragging in of abnormal, precocious children, to show how clever they are; nothing, in short, out of drawing or out of proportion. The play is an idyl, in which all that is wholesome in every-day life is brought into prominence to gladden the heart and refresh the senses. It leaves a sweet taste in the mouth, and when the curtain fell upon the delightful story, the author was called again and again, and applauded with a heartiness which must have sent him home rejoicing to the bosom of his family. We trust that the success he won and deserved will encourage him to further efforts in this direction, and that on many future occasions he will charm and beguile us as he did last night. His feet are firmly planted on the ladder of fame, and he has only to go on as he has begun, to make his name a household word.'"

      "Upon my word," said Mr. Lethbridge, "you almost take away my breath."

      "But am I a true diviner?" asked Kiss.

      "About the critics?"

      "About the piece—your piece?"

      "You are a wizard. I think if I were a dramatic author I should try to write precisely the kind of play you have described. You see, there is little else in my mind. But I am afraid you are wrong about the critics."

      "Not at all," persisted Kiss. "Critics are human, like other people; and search the whole world through, you will find no song more popular than 'Home, sweet Home.'"

      CHAPTER X.

       'MELIA JANE, GODDESS OF POTS AND PANS.

       Table of Contents

      While this conversation was proceeding there stood at a little distance from the speakers a man who had been walking arm in arm with the actor when the friends met, and who fell apart from Kiss when he clapped Mr. Lethbridge upon the shoulder. He was an anxious-eyed man, nervous, fidgety, with a certain tremulousness of limb and feature, denoting a troubled nature. His age was some thirty-five or thereabouts; his clothes were respectable and shabby; and although he took no part in the conversation, and did not obtrude himself, he did not remove his eyes from Kiss and Mr. Lethbridge. Kiss, turning, beckoned to him, and he joined the friends.

      "You heard what we've been talking about," said the actor. "What do you think of it?"

      "I wish," said the man, "that I could write such a piece."

      "Ah," said Kiss, "it is easy to preach as we've been preaching, but to do the thing is a different pair of shoes. It comes by nature, or it comes not at all."

      "But," said the man, "I don't believe it would be a success."

      "Wait a moment," said Kiss; "I am forgetting my manners. Mr. Linton—Mr. Lethbridge."

      The two shook hands.

      "Mr. Linton," said Kiss to Mr. Lethbridge, in explanation, "is a dramatic author, and has written plays."

      Mr. Linton sighed, and fidgeted with his fingers.

      "Has he?" exclaimed Mr. Lethbridge. "And they have been played, of course?"

      Mr. Linton sighed again, and inclined his head.

      "I am really delighted," said Mr. Lethbridge. "I have never in my life spoken to a dramatic author, and have never shaken hands with one. Will you allow me?"

      They shook hands again, Mr. Lethbridge effusively, Mr. Linton with mingled bashfulness, pride, and awkwardness.

      "Successful pieces, I am sure," observed Mr. Lethbridge.

      "More or less so," said Kiss. "We must take our rubs, my dear Leth."

      "Of course, of course. We've got to take them."

      "That's what I'm always telling Linton. We've got to take 'em. Why, you, now," pointing his finger at Mr. Lethbridge, "you're not a public man, and you have your rubs."

      "I am not free from them," said Mr. Lethbridge, in a cheerful voice.

      "There, now, Linton," said Kiss, with the manner of one who desired to point a moral, "our friend Lethbridge here is not a public man, and he has rubs. So you don't think his piece would be a success? Why, Sempronius?"

      "An author must follow the fashion," replied Mr. Linton, "if he wants to live."