Possibly because he had had such small dealings with money, Wynne was not a generous giver. In these days he disbursed less toward the household account than ever before, but did not expect less to appear upon the table on this account. Neither did he expect Eve to appear before him in dresses which had lost all pretentions to attractiveness. Sometimes he would remark: “When on earth are you going to throw away that dreadful old garment?” The artistic mind is apt to be unreasonable in its demands—a circumstance which Eve was obliged to keep very much before her eyes if she would stay the tear which sought to rise there. VII It was some months before the club yielded a practical return. Wynne was seated in the hollow of a deep leather chair, and he overheard two men talking. One was Max Levis, London’s newest impresario, and the other Leonard Passmore, a producer of some standing, whose methods Wynne disapproved of very heartily. “You’ve read the play?” queried Levis. “Yes. I should say it was a certainty.” “Thought you would—that’s capital! Wanted your opinion before writing to Quiltan.” Wynne knew Quiltan by reputation. His Oxford verses had caused a stir, and the rare appearances of his articles were hailed enthusiastically by press and public alike. Lane Quiltan besides being gifted, was exceedingly well off—a reason, perhaps, for his small literary output. Max Levis played with the pages of a manuscript copy of the play. “Formed any views regarding the production?” he asked. Mr. Passmore had formed many views, and proceeded to expound them at some length. He held forth for the best part of half an hour, while Wynne, from the screen of his chair, silently scorned every word he uttered. “God!” he thought, “and these are the men who cater art to the nation!” Presently the two men rose and walked toward the dining-room, heavy in talk. On the small table beside where they had sat lay the copy of the play. As the swing doors closed behind them Wynne picked it up and started to read. Messrs. Levis and Passmore stayed long at their meat, and Wynne had read the play from cover to cover before they returned. It was not often his heart went out to a contemporary’s work, but this was an exception. What he read filled him with delight, envy, and admiration. “Witches”—for so the play was called—possessed the rarest quality. There was wit, imagination, and satire, and it was written with that effortless ease at which all true artists should aim. As he laid the copy back on the small table Wynne gave vent to an exclamation of indignant resentment, provoked by memories of the proposals Passmore had made in regard to the manner in which he proposed to interpret the work. Here was a thing of real artistic beauty, which was to be subjected to commercial mutilation by a cross-grained fool who had made a reputation by massing crowds in such positions that the centre of the stage was clear for the principals.