"I don't want money. I hate the thought of money. But money is
the only proof of democratic appreciation, and that is what I need,
and what every artist needs.... Don't you think there's money in the
poetical drama, Mr. Sachs?"
"Not in America," said Mr. Sachs. "London is a queer place."
"Look at the runs of Stephen Phillips's plays!"
"Yes.... I only reckon to know America."
"Look at what Pilgrim's made out of Shakspere."
"I thought you were talking about poetry," said Edward Henry too
hastily.
"And isn't Shakspere poetry?" Carlo Trent challenged.
"Well, I suppose if you put it in that way, he _is_!" Edward Henry
cautiously admitted, humbled. He was under the disadvantage of never
having either seen or read "Shakspere." His sure instinct had always
warned him against being drawn into "Shakspere."
"And has Miss Euclid ever done anything finer than Constance?"
"I don't know," Edward Henry pleaded.
"Why--Miss Euclid in 'King John'--"
"I never saw 'King John,'" said Edward Henry.
"_Do you mean to say_," expostulated Carlo Trent in italics, "_that
you never saw Rose Euclid as Constance_?"
And Edward Henry, shaking his abashed head, perceived that his life
had been wasted.
Carlo, for a few moments, grew reflective and softer.
"It's one of my earliest and most precious boyish memories,"
he murmured, as he examined the ceiling.
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