“There is but one God,” said Brandon, allowing himself to be pressed into the chair nearest the fire. “And John Smith is his prophet. In a word, he has brought me to town.” Pomfret laughed, but the shrewd eyes twinkled with a heightened curiosity. “That is to say, your mysterious genius consents to the cuts?’ “On the contrary.” And Brandon produced the letter. While Pomfret read he watched his face narrowly. One thing was clear: since the great man’s visit to Hart’s Ghyll a good deal of water had flowed under the bridge. At any rate disappointment, vexation, perplexity, were now freely displayed in that expressive countenance. “What a rum letter!” was the first comment. “Is the chap cracked or is he trying to pull your leg?” “‘Nothing is but thinking makes it so.’” Brandon’s gravity was almost stern. “This is no common man, and one day, I hope, a topsy-turvy planet will know it.” “I can only say it’s a great pity he won’t consent to the cuts.” The rejoinder was measured, deliberate, businesslike. “A very great pity. Morrison’s read it, and he says if it is handled in the right way it might be a property. As it is of course the public won’t look at it.” “They won’t be allowed to look at it if the Censor’s ukase means anything.” “That can be got over. And as I say, the cuts will be all for the good of the play.” “But don’t you see, old dunce, that this is a thing no one can touch?” “In that case there’s an end of the matter.” Pomfret’s jaw fell three inches. “The law won’t allow it to be produced in London.” “Then so much the worse for London.” “No doubt,” said the cynic at the breakfast table. “But seriously, if you can persuade your crackpot to be practical we may have a pretty big thing. Honeybone, the composer, has seen the music. He says it’s great, and he thinks that theme in the second act might go all over the world.” “Well, we shall see.” “But you won’t, my friend, I assure you, unless you can make the man hear reason.” “We have his last word, I’m afraid,” said Brandon gravely, as he put the letter back in his pocket. “And we mustn’t forget that there’s a great purpose at the back of it all. I believe this work to be inspired, just as the gospels are inspired--although I own that a month ago I daren’t have made any such statement.” Pomfret opened round eyes of wary amazement “Well, well,” he said. And he rose from the table and offered his visitor a cigarette. XXXVI “WELL, well,” said Robert Pomfret. At that moment he was a very puzzled man. “So now you know the worst,” said Brandon, looking at him eagerly. “And that’s why in my humble opinion the thing must stand just as it is. Moreover, you now know why I conceive it my bounden duty to give it to the world. And if it can’t be put up here I shall take it to New York.” The mention of New York had a visible effect upon Pomfret. “Rather a coincidence,” he said. “Urban Meyer is over here. He’s lunching with me today at the Ritz. You’d better come and meet him.”