“Broadway? Think of a play of mine on Broadway! Think of the fat swine who waddle into those theatres!”
“My dear, there are men of brains writing for the theatre to-day who do not scorn those swine.”
“Men of brains? Who, who, I ask you?”
“Bernard Shaw.”
“Showman, trickster.”
“Barrie.”
“Well, maybe.”
“Pinero?”
“Pinero knows his trade,” he admitted.
“Galsworthy, Brieux.”
“Galsworthy is a pamphleteer. Brieux is no artist. He is a surgeon. They have nothing to say to Broadway. Broadway swallows the pills they offer because of their names, but they might just as well give them the sugar drip they want, for all the good it does.”
“Well, they get heard, anyhow. What’s the use of writing a play if it isn’t acted? Of course we’ll sell your plays.”
“But if we don’t, where will you be?”
“Oh, I’ll be all right. I mean to support myself, anyhow, and you, too, if the plays don’t go.”
