"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."