“You were not at school together. She is four or five years older than you.” “Only three. When she got married she seemed to me to be almost venerable. Three years seemed a long time then.” “But now you fancy that you have formed a right idea of what is meant by three years?” “Well, a better idea, at any rate.” “You are still a good way off it. But if you have formed a right estimate of a woman’s friendship----” “That’s still something, you mean to say? But why did you stop short, Mr. Courtland?” Phyllis was looking up to his face with a smile of inquiry. “I was afraid that you might think I was on the way to preach a sermon on the text of woman’s friendship. I pulled myself up just in time. I’m glad that I didn’t frighten you.” “Oh, no; you didn’t frighten me, Mr. Courtland. I was only wondering how you would go on--whether you would treat the topic sentimentally or cynically.” “And what conclusion did you come to on the subject?” “I know that you are a brave man--perhaps the bravest man alive. You would, I think, have treated the question seriously--feelingly.” He laughed. “The adoption of that course implies courage certainly. All the men of sentimentality--which is something quite different from sentiment, mind you--have taken to writing melodrama and penny novelettes. You didn’t hear much sentimentality on this stage to-night, or any other night, for that matter.” “No; it would have sounded unreal. A Parthenon audience would resent what they believed to be a false note in art; and a Parthenon audience is supposed to be the concentration of the spirit of the period in thought and art; isn’t it?” “I don’t know. I’m half a savage. But I like to think the best of a Parthenon audience; you and I formed part of that concentration to-night--yes, I like to think the best of it. I suppose we know--we, the Parthenon audience, I mean--what our feelings are on the art of acting--the art of play-writing.” “I shouldn’t like to have to define my feelings at a moment’s notice.” “One must make a beginning, and then work up gradually to the definition.” “For instance----” “Well, for instance, there’s something that people call realism nowadays.” “My father has his ideas on what’s called realism,” Phyllis laughed. “‘Realism in painting is the ideal with a smudge.’” “I should like to hear what you think of it?” He also laughed sympathetically. “Oh, I only venture to think that realism is the opposite to reality.” “And, so far as I can gather, your definition is not wanting in breadth--no, nor in accuracy. Sentimentality is the opposite to sentiment.” “That is a point on which we agreed a moment ago. My father says that sentiment is a strong man’s concealment of what he feels, while sentimentality is a weak man’s expression of what he doesn’t feel.”