uld never do them themselves?"

"I'm sure they are," said Alvina.

"But I _can't_ believe it," said Mr. May, pouting up his mouth and
smiling at her as if she were a whimsical child. "What a low opinion
you have of human nature!"

"Have I?" laughed Alvina. "I've never reckoned it up. But I'm sure
that these common people here are jealous if anybody does anything
or has anything they can't have themselves."

"I can't believe it," protested Mr. May. "Could they be so _silly_!
And then why aren't they jealous of the extraordinary things which
are done on the film?"

"Because they don't see the flesh-and-blood people. I'm sure that's
it. The film is only pictures, like pictures in the _Daily Mirror_.
And pictures don't have any feelings apart from their own feelings.
I mean the feelings of the people who watch them. Pictures don't
have any life except in the people who watch them. And that's why
they like them. Because they make them feel that they are
everything."

"The pictures make the colliers and lasses feel that they themselves
are everything? But how? They identify themselves with the heroes
and heroines on the screen?"

"Yes--they take it all to themselves--and there isn't anything
except themselves. I know it's like that. It's because they can
spread themselves over a film, and they _can't_ over a living
performer. They're up against the performer himself. And they hate
it."

Mr. May watched her long and dismally.

"I _can't_ believe people are like that!--sane people!" he said.
"Why, to me the whole joy is in the living personality, the curious
_personality_ of the artiste. That's what I enjoy so much."

"I know. But that's where you're different from them."

"But _am_ I?"

"Yes. You're not as up to the mark as they are."

"Not up to the mark? What do you mean? Do you mean they are more
intelligent?"

"No, but they're more modern. You like things which aren't yourself.
But they don't. They hate to admire anything that they can't take to
themselves. They hate anything that isn't themselves. And that's why
they like pictures. It's all themselves to them, all the time."

He still puzzled.

"You know I don't follow you," he said, a little mocking, as if she
were making a fool of herself.

"Because you don't know them. You don't know the common people. You
don't know how conceited they are."

He watched her a long time.

"And you think we ought to cut out the variety, and give nothing but
pi