“But the idea behind this play is that the theater is capable of becoming a great moral and spiritual force. And that’s what it ought to be. It’s appeal is irresistible; and religion brought from its superhuman pedestal might be humanized, individualized, made attractive to all the world. Now, my friend, produce this play at your best theater, with all the wonderful technical resources at your command, and you will have a success that will simply astonish you.” “Or failure that will cause me to file a petition in bankruptcy.” “I will indemnify you against all loss.” Pomfret shook a solemn head. “My dear boy,” he said, “it would be madness to put up a play of this kind.” “Tell me, what would be the cost of a first-class production?” “At the Imperial, five thousand pounds, and you would have to be prepared to lose every penny. It’s not the kind of thing the public wants, particularly just now.” “Well, let them have their chance and see what happens.” They continued to discuss the matter until midnight, and even returned to it the following day. Brandon marshaled his arguments with such skill that Pomfret, against his deepest instinct as a theatrical manager, began to weaken a little. Like all men who succeed in life, the sense of his own limitations was ever before him. He knew that there were more things in earth and heaven than were dreamed of in the philosophy of Robert Pomfret. Brandon was a poet, a scholar, a man of taste, and even if his qualities had no place in a theater run on sound commercial lines, after all they stood for something. And when they had a solid backing of five thousand pounds, they became doubly impressive. By the time Pomfret was at the end of his brief stay, he was thinking furiously. And if he saw no cause to alter the judgment he had formed, he was too shrewd a man not to fortify it with sound technical advice. Therefore, the next day, when he left Hart’s Ghyll, the precious manuscript went with him. He promised to have it copied and submitted to his reader of plays. XXXV A FORTNIGHT passed, which for Brandon was a time of hope, increasing physical well-being, steadily returning faculty, and then came a letter from Pomfret. A second reading of the play had deepened his interest; moreover his reader, on whose judgment he relied, was inclined to think that it had possibilities. He agreed, however, that the subject was a thorny one in the present state of public feeling, and before any proposal was made it would be well, perhaps, to sound the Censor of plays.