've only just got the plot, and
I've written about two pages. I'm writing it in an exercise-book."

A shadow passed suddenly across the author's brow.

"And the sickening thing," he said, as he leant back in his chair and
sipped his ginger-beer, "is that on the cover of it I've spelt
Disappointment with two 's's.'"

(The troubles of this literary life!)

"Sickening," I agreed.

. . . . .

If there is one form of theft utterly unforgivable it is the theft by a
writer of another writer's undeveloped ideas. Borrow the plot of Sir J.
M. Barrie's last play, and you do him no harm; you only write yourself
down a plagiarist. But listen to the scenario of his next play (if he is
kind enough to read it to you) and write it up before he has time to
develop it himself, and you do him a grievous wrong; for you fix the
charge of plagiarism on _him_. Surely, you say, no author could sink so
low as this.

And yet, when I got home, the plot of "Disappointment" (with one "s") so
took hold of me that I did the unforgivable thing; I went to my desk and
wrote the opera. I make no excuses for myself. I only point out that
Bobby's opera, as performed at Covent Garden in Italian, with Short's
music conducted by Richter, is not likely to be belittled by anything
that I may write here. I have only written in order that I may get the
scenario--which had begun to haunt me--off my chest. Bobby, I know, will
understand and forgive; Short I have not yet had the pleasure of
meeting, but I believe he is smaller than Bobby.

ACT I.

SCENE--_A grand restaurant. Enter Tommy, a very handsome man, just
back from Oxford._

_Tommy sings:_

Felicia, I love you,
By all the stars above you
I swear you shall be mine!--
And now I'm going to dine.

[_He sits down and orders a bottle of ginger-beer and some
meringues._

_Waiter._ Your dinner, Sir.

_Tommy._ Thank you. And would you ask Mr. Reynolds to come in, if
you see him? (_To the audience_) A week ago I was crossing the
Channel--(_enter Reynolds_)--Oh, here you are, Reynolds! I was just
saying that a week ago I was crossing the Channel when I saw the
most beautiful girl I have ever seen who had lost her umbrella. I
said, "Excuse me, but is this your umbrella?" She said, "Yes."
Reynolds, I sat down and fell in love with her. Her name was
Felicia. And now I must go a