Abbot. No, Sir Tristram; from the Parthenon. Sir T. A soldier?-- The tables and the wine? Is all prepared? Salerne. Yes; everything. Sir T. See that they set it out Courageously.-- [Salerne goes out.] A soldier, did you say? Abbot. In Egypt and the Transvaal. Sir T. Intelligent? Abbot. I think he is. Sir T. Send for him. [Abbot goes out.] Letters, Hildreth? Ah, what are these? The bank, the law. No stamp; Not posted; sent by hand. Hildreth. An hour ago. Sir T. Well, we have scorned such documents before. Set them aside unopened.--Did you hear? Hildreth. Hear? No. Sir T. They hissed me, Hildreth. Hildreth. Glad I am I did not hear. Sir T. The foulest, meanest sound, The hatefullest! How nauseous men can be! I think I sooner would be hissed than hiss. The paltriness, the impotence of one Who hisses! It hurts; it kills: a hiss can kill: I think a hiss could kill. A curious thing, That impotence should have the power to kill! A strange beast, man! [The telephone rings. Hildreth. [At the telephone] Mark Belfry wants to see you. Sir T. Oh! ... Let him come. Hildreth. [At the telephone] (Yes. Now.) Sir T. I needed this-- To be well hissed: a shower-bath for the soul: It strengthens me. An actor can't be great? I think he can. [Enter Mark Belfry.] Well Belfry, how are you? Belfry. In health, Sir Tristram. Sir T. Have you come to buy The theatre? Belfry. I have. Sir T. It's not for sale. Belfry. It will be soon. Sir T. As soon as I am dead. Belfry. What are you going to do? Sir T. This lasts a week. To-morrow I rehearse an old success. Belfry. And after that? Sir T. I cannot tell. Belfry. I can. Sir T. Predict. Belfry. I shall provide you with a play. Sir T. Never! Belfry. I take the risk. Sir T. No name but mine Shall flourish on my bills whilst I am here. I hate your Yankee style, your affectation: "Presents Sir Tristram Sumner!" No, Mark Belfry! Belfry. That I forego. I want your theatre. Yes; I mean to have it. Any kind of hold To start with! Oh, I'll own the Grosvenor yet! I fight in the open. I'll finance you; flood Your desert, for I guess your Nile's dried up; I'll gild the wolf's clean teeth, and flesh them too, With prime American dentistry. No name But yours; and no condition but my play. It gallops hard at home; there's money in it; A part to fit you; colours, crowds and kings. It's curious how it came to be, this play. One of your poets wrote upon commission---- Sir T. For you? Belfry. For me. Sir T. A poet, Belfry!