"Then of course it’s intellectual!" asserted Mr. Marrier positively. "That proves it. I’m very sorry I’ve not seen it either; but it must be intellectual. The day of the unintellectual drama is over. The people won’t have it. We must have faith in the people, and we can’t show our faith better than by calling our theatre by its proper name--’The Intellectual Theatre!’" ("_His_ theatre!" thought Edward Henry. "What’s he got to do with it?") "I don’t know that I’m so much in love with your ’Intellectual,’" muttered Carlo Trent. "_Aren’t_ you?" protested Rose Euclid, shocked. "Of course I’m not," said Carlo. "I told you before, and I tell you now, that there’s only one name for the theatre--’The Muses’ Theatre!’" "Perhaps you’re right!" Rose agreed, as if a swift revelation had come to her. "Yes, you’re right." ("She’ll make a cheerful sort of partner for a fellow," thought Edward Henry, "if she’s in the habit of changing her mind like that every thirty seconds." His appetite had gone. He could only drink.) "Naturally, I’m right! Aren’t we going to open with my play, and isn’t my play in verse? ... I’m sure you’ll agree with me, Mr. Machin, that there is no real drama except the poetical drama." Edward Henry was entirely at a loss. Indeed, he was drowning in his dressing-gown, so favourable to the composition of hexameters. "Poetry..." he vaguely breathed. "Yes, sir," said Carlo Trent. "Poetry." "I’ve never read any poetry in my life," said Edward Henry, like a desperate criminal. "Not a line." Whereupon Carlo Trent rose up from his seat, and his eye-glasses dangled in front of him. "Mr. Machin," said he with the utmost benevolence. "This is the most interesting thing I’ve ever come across. Do you know, you’re precisely the man I’ve always been wanting to meet? ... The virgin mind. The clean slate.... Do you know, you’re precisely the man that it’s my ambition to write for?" "It’s very kind of you," said Edward Henry feebly, beaten, and consciously beaten. (He thought miserably: "What would Nellie think if she saw me in this gang?") Carlo Trent went on, turning to Rose Euclid: "Rose, will you recite those lines of Nashe?" Rose Euclid began to blush. "That bit you taught me the day before yesterday?" "Only the three lines! No more! They are the very essence of poetry--poetry at its purest. We’ll see the effect of them on Mr. Machin. We’ll just see. It’s the ideal opportunity to test my theory. Now, there’s a good girl!" "Oh! I can’t. I’m too nervous," stammered Rose. "You can, and you must," said Carlo, gazing at her in homage. "Nobody in the world can say them as well as you can. Now!" Rose Euclid stood up. "One moment," Carlo stopped her. "There’s too much light. We can’t do with all this light. Mr. Machin--do you mind?"