mentioned.
Poor chap! He was out of the running, and never likely to become a
member of the Thespic Club, election to which makes a man a real
dramatist, whose name may be considered good for a week's business.

Rodd never thought in terms of business. He thought in terms of human
relationships, and out of them composed--never ceased
composing--dramas, vivid, ruthless, terrible. It was very bad for him,
of course, because it forced him into a strained detachment from the
life all around him, and when he met people he was always bent on
finding out what they were really thinking, instead of accepting what
they wished him to think was in their minds. He could no more do that
than he could use his considerable technical powers to concoct the
confectionery which in the theatre of those days passed, God save us,
for a play. He wanted to come in contact with the dramatic essence of
the people he met, but every one withheld it or protected him or
herself against him, and so he lived alone. For the sake of his work
he discarded the ordinary social personality which his education had
taught him to acquire, and he walked through the world exposed, rather
terrifying to meet; but so exquisitely sensitive that one acute
pleasure--a flower, a woman's smile, a strong man shaking hands with
his friend, a lovers' meeting, a real quarrel between two men who hated
each other, the attention of a friendly dog--could obliterate all the
horror and disgust with which most of what he saw and felt inspired
him. He was sure of himself as a wind is sure of itself, but he was
without conceit.... When he was very young, he had been discovered by
one or two women. That was enough. He knew that the desire of women
is not worth satisfying, and he left them alone unless they were in
distress, and then he helped them generally at the cost of their
thinking he was in love with them. Then he had to explain that he had
helped them as he would help a child or a sick man. Generally they
would weep and say he was a liar and a deceiver, but he knew what
women's tears are worth, and when they got that far left them to
prevent them going any further.... But he always had women to look
after him, women who were grateful, women who, having once tasted his
sympathy, could not do without it. His sympathy was passionate and to
some natures like strong drink. Very few men could stand it because it
went straight to the secret places of the heart, and men,