irritation, the crushed sentiment
I just mentioned, that gave a little heave in the exclamation, "Oh
that--that's all rubbish: the less of that the better!" At this Mr.
Dashwood sniffed a little, rather resentful; he had expected Peter to be
pleased with the names of the eager ladies who had "called"--which
proved how low a view he took of his art. Our friend explained--it is to
be hoped not pedantically--that this art was serious work and that
society was humbug and imbecility; also that of old the great comedians
wouldn't have known such people. Garrick had essentially his own circle.

"No, I suppose they didn't 'call' in the old narrow-minded time," said
Basil Dashwood.

"Your profession didn't call. They had better company--that of the
romantic gallant characters they represented. They lived with _them_, so
it was better all round." And Peter asked himself--for that clearly
struck the young man as a dreary period--if _he_ only, for Miriam, in
her new life and among the futilities of those who tried to lionise her,
expressed the artistic idea. This at least, Sherringham reflected, was
a situation that could be improved.

He learned from his companion that the new play, the thing they were
rehearsing, was an old play, a romantic drama of thirty years before,
very frequently revived and threadbare with honourable service. Dashwood
had a part in it, but there was an act in which he didn't appear, and
this was the act they were doing that morning. Yolande had done all
Yolande could do; the visitor was mistaken if he supposed Yolande such a
tremendous hit. It had done very well, it had run three months, but they
were by no means coining money with it. It wouldn't take them to the end
of the season; they had seen for a month past that they would have to
put on something else. Miss Rooth, moreover, wanted a new part; she was
above all impatient to show her big range. She had grand ideas; she
thought herself very good-natured to repeat the same stuff for three
months. The young man lighted another cigarette and described to his
listener some of Miss Rooth's ideas. He abounded in information about
her--about her character, her temper, her peculiarities, her little
ways, her manner of producing some of her effects. He spoke with
familiarity and confidence, as if knowing more about her than any one
else--as if he had invented or discovered her, were in a sense her
proprietor or guarantor. It was the talk of the shop, both wit