"I know that you are a brave man--perhaps the bravest man alive. You would, I think, have treated the question seriously--feelingly."

"The adoption of that course implies courage certainly. All the men of sentimentality--which is something quite different from sentiment, mind you--have taken to writing melodrama and penny novelettes. You didn't hear much sentimentality on this stage to-night, or any other night, for that matter."

"No; it would have sounded unreal. A Parthenon audience would resent what they believed to be a false note in art; and a Parthenon audience is supposed to be the concentration of the spirit of the period in thought and art; isn't it?"

"I don't know. I'm half a savage. But I like to think the best of a Parthenon audience; you and I formed part of that concentration to-night--yes, I like to think the best of it. I suppose we know--we, the Parthenon audience, I mean--what our feelings are on the art of acting--the art of play-writing."

"I shouldn't like to have to define my feelings at a moment's notice."

"One must make a beginning, and then work up gradually to the definition."

"Well, for instance, there's something that people call realism nowadays."

"My father has his ideas on what's called realism," Phyllis laughed. " 'Realism in painting is the ideal with a smudge.' "