“I think,” he said sternly, “that the people should be the judge of what plays they want to see. You would not try to tell them what to eat or drink, would you, Mrs. Pearmain?” There was an unfortunate allusion, perhaps, though unconscious, in the word “drink”; for that was precisely what Joseph Barton had done to the people—he had made them drink a very inferior grade of blue-white fluid called milk. Brainard was rebuked by a stony silence, for his unintentional _faux pas_, and then there burst forth a flood of criticism. For an hour these good people tore to tatters the fabric of his dream. There seemed to be a perplexing double fire of objections. A few, the Reverend Spicer among them, felt that Brainard’s ideas about the sort of dramatic art suited to the people were dangerous and anarchistic. Unless such a scheme were carefully hedged in by a sound conservatism, it might work more harm than good. Others—and these were in the majority—asserted that it was altogether a mistake to found a people’s theater on the level of the people. Art was always aristocratic, they maintained, and the people should be invited guardedly to partake of the intellectual entertainment provided for them by their superiors in a playhouse situated where the best classes could patronize it, with obscure galleries to which the commonalty might penetrate. “You must appeal to the intelligent classes,” the college president told Brainard dogmatically. “Where are they?” he asked caustically. Thereafter he sat silent, and did not answer any of the comments made. At this point Farson circulated the plans for the new theater, in order to create a diversion, if possible, and explained to a little group the design of the grandiose edifice. Here the banker, who prided himself on his knowledge of architecture, took a hand and condemned the plans severely as “mixed in style,” “not indicative of the purpose of the building,” and so on. The sheets passed up and down the drawing-room, to which the party had adjourned, and were ogled by fine ladies with lorgnettes, until Brainard rose, and, bowing to his hostess, prepared to leave. “It’s so interesting, your plan, Mr. Brainard,” Mrs. Pearmain gushed; “but I think you must modify some of your ideas. You must start from _above_ always, and work _down_.” “Perhaps I shall, when I discover what is above,” he retorted. The secretary gathered up the plans, and overtook Brainard in the hall. MacNaughton was already there. The old actor’s face was very red; he had not said a single word all the afternoon, and his self-control was making him positively apoplectic. He stalked majestically past the footman, metaphorically shaking the dust of the milk-trust millions from his feet as he crossed the threshold. “Asses, fools, imbeciles!” he cried, as the three reached the pavement. “What do _they_ know about the drama? About anything but food and drink? They want us to build a theater for _them_!”