ldn't possibly give the feeling of it in a play."

"Couldn't you give the feeling of the people looking at it?" suggested
his wife, and she put out her hand to lay it on his.

"Yes, you could do that," he assented, with pleasure in her notion; "and
that would be better. I suppose that is what would be aimed at in a
description of the scene, which would be tiresome if it didn't give the
feeling of the spectator."

"And Godolphin would say that if you let the carpenter have something to
do he would give the scene itself, and you could have the effect of it
at first hand."

Maxwell laughed. "I wonder how much they believe in those contrivances
of the carpenter themselves. They have really so little to do with the
dramatic intention; but they have been multiplied so since the stage
began to make the plays that the actors are always wanting them in. I
believe the time will come when the dramatist will avoid the occasion or
the pretext for them."

"That will be after Godolphin's time," said Mrs. Maxwell.

"Well, I don't know," returned Maxwell. "If Godolphin should happen to
imagine doing without them he would go all lengths."

"Or if you imagined it and let him suppose he had. He never imagines
anything of himself."

"No, he doesn't. And yet how perfectly he grasps the notion of the thing
when it is done! It is very different from literature, acting is. And
yet literature is only the representation of life."

"Well, acting is the representation of life at second-hand, then, and it
ought to be willing to subordinate itself. What I can't bear in
Godolphin is his setting himself up to be your artistic equal. He is no
more an artist than the canvas is that the artist paints a picture on."

Maxwell laughed. "Don't tell him so; he won't like it."

"I will tell him so some day, whether he likes it or not."

"No, you mustn't; for it isn't true. He's just as much an artist in his
way as I am in mine, and, so far as the public is concerned, he has
given more proofs."

"Oh, _his_ public!"

"It won't do to despise any public, even the theatre-going public."
Maxwell added the last words with a faint sigh.

"It's always second-rate," said his wife, passionately. "Third-rate,
fourth-rate! Godolphin was quite right about that. I wish you were
writing a novel, Brice, instead of a play. Then you would be really
addressing refined people."

"It kills me to have you say that, Louise."

"Well, I won't. But don't you see, the