This weak reasoning gives the realists away. They are so set on the letter of truth as to deny its spirit. Aiming at exact photographic reproduction of life, they lose all sense of proportion and real values, hiding the wood in the trees. Whether or not the material facts be true, the reality is false, the proportions misplaced, the picture out of focus. In practice, moreover, they do select no less arbitrarily than the romantic Victorians. In their view, "one can only get at most women's minds through their bodies." But Mr. George has only _expressed_ one reason for his contention; even if _that_ be seriously intended. The argument really _means_ that, often, if not always, the most vital moments of our life are spent in the bedroom; a half-truth more dangerous and misleading than a lie. What the word "bedroom" in this sentence honestly stands for is obviously something quite real; but it does not reveal or test character, and can never in any way complete a _true_ picture of life. The accidents of expression are not truth itself. In a recent drama of temperament called _Enter Madame_, the author's mere instinct for stage-effects has, as it were by accident, provided an illustration that proves our point. The hero of this spontaneous and light-hearted drama is attracted by two women of whom one largely appeals to his passions (though _not_ his lust); and the other appears to possess what modernists would call the "tame" comforting qualities of a "good" wife. He chooses passion in the end, following his love _off the stage_, into a bedroom. In this scene we have the whole truth; no added sincerity in the presentment, no shade of character the most minute, would have been added by opening that door. The emotional decision was the reality. To the realist the play would probably seem a square fight between wife and mistress—with the inevitable result! But, in actual fact, almost every detail went to confound the new morality. The passionate woman was the hero's wife, whom he had just divorced—to achieve domesticity. She did _not_ exclusively depend upon the physical appeal; though it was used to bring him back. They had a thousand other, more subtle, points of sympathy and mutual attraction, despite the exasperating petty irritations of life, which she would not allow to wreck their love. On the other hand, it was not any fixed aversion to marriage, any weakness in the bond itself, that caused her rival's failure. She simply was not, when—as it were—put to the test, his spiritual mate. For him, she was the wrong woman. Most certainly this play was not inspired by any conscious theories on life or art. A straightforward, workmanlike picture of everyday people; its very lack of intention made it the more convincing. The author had no axe to grind.