ks create a
furore because from end to end they glorify post-war youth at its
worst, and the stage is almost as bad. But New Yorkers are too old and
wise in the theatre not to have a very deep appreciation of its art,
and they will render tribute to old favorites as long as they produce
good plays."

"But that is very fine. . . . I go to the matinee a good deal and I am
often very bored. And I have been reading your current novels with the
desire to learn as well as to be amused. I wish so much to understand
the country in which I was born. I have received much illumination!
It is quite remarkable how well most of your authors write--but merely
well, that is. So few have individuality of style. And even in the
best authors I find nearly all of the heroines too young. I had read
many American novels before the war--they came to us in Tauchnitz--and
even then I found this quite remarkable preoccupation with youth."

"Well--youth is a beautiful thing--is it not?" He smiled into her own
beautiful face. "But, if you will notice, many of our novelists,
capable of real psychology, carry their heroines over into their second
youth, and you can almost hear their sigh of relief when they get them
there."

"Yes, but they are still behind the European novelists, who find women
interesting at any age, and their intelligent readers agree with them.
Young women have little psychology. They are too fluid."

"Quite right. But I am afraid we are too young a country to tolerate
middle-aged heroines. We are steeped in conventionalism, for all our
fads. We have certain cast-iron formulae for life, and associate love
with youth alone. I think we have a vague idea that autumnal love is
rather indecent."

"And you--yourself?" She looked at him speculatively. "Are you too
obsessed?"

"I? Good lord, no. I was in love with a woman of forty when I was
seventeen."

His eyes were glowing into hers and she demanded abruptly: "Do you
think I am forty?"

"Rather not!"

"Well, I am young," she said with a deep sigh of content. "But look!
I see nothing, but I see everything."

Clavering glanced about him. Every neck in the boxes and neighboring
seats was craned. It was evident that the people in front--and no
doubt behind--were listening intently, although they could have caught
no more than an occasional word of the murmured conversation. Eyes
across the aisle, when not distended with surprise, glared at him. He
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