“It is good, isn’t it? I’m bound to say Gaston never lets me down. I don’t know if Mrs. Pottage told you that the occasion of my finding myself under her hospitable roof was my engagement with the _Lights of Home_ company. A queer old-fashioned melodrama, one at which we are tempted to laugh nowadays. But I accepted the engagement with a purpose. One is never too old to learn, in our profession. I wanted to get the feeling of the audience for melodrama. Of course, in my early days I played a good deal in melodrama, but during the last ten years I have been mostly on tour with London successes. Last year, I had an idea for an original play, and while I was resting I embodied my wandering fancies in tangible shape. I have written, Miss O’Finn, what I do not hesitate to call the finest domestic drama of our time, _The Custody of the Child_. A striking title, eh? The subject is, as you may guess, divorce, but treated, I need hardly say, in a thoroughly pleasant manner. I abominate these modern plays—Ibsen and all that kind of thing. Thank goodness, the great majority of our countrymen are with me there. We don’t want that kind of raking in muckheaps. No, the moment that the British drama forgets that it is founded upon British family life, the British drama is dead. I hope you agree with me?” Nancy supposed that he was more likely to stop talking if she agreed with him than if she argued with him. So she nodded her head in emphatic approval. “I knew the mother of that child must be an intelligent woman.” “Surely you haven’t been discussing the present state of the drama with Letizia?” said Nancy. Mr. Plimmer laughed solemnly. “Not exactly. But, by Jove! that child would be quite capable of discussing it. She’d talk a great deal more sense about it than most of these confounded dramatic critics. Don’t speak to me about dramatic critics, Miss O’Finn. They disgust me. I can’t bring myself to speak about them. I regard dramatic critics and wife-beaters as the most contemptible beings on earth. By what right does a man who knows no more about acting than a graven image set himself up to criticise people who do? There he sits in the front row of the stalls with last night’s shirt and a perpetual sneer—but don’t ask me to go on talking about such rascals. My gorge rises against them. I despise them. I regard them with contempt and aversion. I wish you hadn’t brought up this topic, Miss O’Finn. I can’t even enjoy Gaston’s excellent lunch when I think about dramatic critics. It’s their ignorance that is so appalling, their ignorance, their lack of taste, their dishonesty, their ... but, no, I cannot speak about them! Do let me pour you out another glass of wine.” “You were telling me about your play, Mr. Plimmer.” The actor-author mopped his brow, and after reviving himself with a few mouthfuls of food was able to continue.