morning.

Philip.

Oh——!

Roope.

Yes, you may roar. I declare I shudder to think of the difference it 'ud make to me socially if I didn't advertise.

Philip.

Robbie, I blush for you.

Roope.

Tosh! It's an advertising age.

Philip.

[Stalking to the fireplace.] It's a beastly vulgar age.

Roope.

It's the age I happen to live in, and I accommodate myself to it. [Pacing the room as he warms to his theme.] And if it's necessary for a private individual such as myself to advertise, as I maintain it is, how much more necessary is it for you to do so—a novelist, a poet, a would-be playwright, a man with something to sell! Dash it, they've got to advertise soap, and soap's essential! Why not literature, which isn't? And yet you won't find the name of Mr. Philip Mackworth in the papers from one year's end to another, except in a scrubby criticism now and again.

Philip.

[Calmly.] Excuse me, there are the publisher's announcements.

Roope.

Publishers' announcements! I'm not speaking of the regular advertising columns. What I want to see are paragraphs concerning you mixed up with the news of the day, information about you and your habits, interviews with you, letters from you on every conceivable topic——

Philip.

[Grinning.] Do you!

Roope.

[Joining Philip.] Oh, my dear Phil, I entreat you, feed the papers! It isn't as if you hadn't talent; you have. Advertising minus talent goes a long way; advertising plus talent is irresistible. Feed the papers. The more you do for them, the more they'll do for you. Quid pro quo. To the advertiser shall advertisement be given. Newspaper men are the nicest chaps in the world. Feed them gratis with bright and amusin' "copy," as you term it, and they'll love and protect you for ever.

Philip.

Not for ever, Robbie. Whom the press loves die young.

Roope.

It's fickle, you mean—some day it'll turn and rend you? Perhaps. Still, if you make hay while the sun shines——

Philip.

The sun! You don't call that the sun! [Disdainfully.] P'ssh!

Roope.

[Leaving him.] Oh, I've no patience with you! [Spluttering.] Upon my word, your hatred of publicity is—is—is—is morbid. It's worse than morbid—it's Victorian. [Sitting in the chair by the small table.] There! I can't say anything severer.

Philip.

[Advancing.] Yes, but wait a moment, Robbie. Who says I have a hatred of publicity? I haven't said anything so absurd. Don't I write for the public?

Roope.

Exactly!

Philip.

[Standing near Roope.] I have no dislike for publicity—for fame. By George, sir, I covet it, if I can win it honestly and decently!

Roope.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] Ah——!

Philip.

And I humble myself before the men and women of my craft—and they are many—who succeed in winning it in that fashion, or who are content to remain obscure. But for the rest—the hustlers of the pen, the seekers after mere blatant applause, the pickers-up of cheap popularity—I've a profound contempt for them and their methods.

Roope.

You can't deny the ability of some of 'em.

Philip.

Deny it! Of course I don't deny it. But no amount of ability, of genius if you will, absolves the follower of any art from the obligation of conducting himself as a modest gentleman——

Roope.

Ah, there's where you're so hopelessly Victorian and out o' date!

Philip.

Well, that's my creed; and, whether I've talent or not, I'd rather snuff out, when my time comes, neglected and a pauper than go back on it. [Walking away and pacing the room.] Oh, but I'm not discouraged, my dear Robbie—not a scrap! I'm not discouraged, though you do regard me as a dismal failure.

Roope.

[Deprecatingly.] No, no!

Philip.

I shall collar the great public yet. You mark me, I shall collar 'em yet, and without stooping to the tricks and devices you advocate! [Returning to Roope.] Robbie——

Roope.

[Rising.] Hey?

Philip.

[Laying his hands on Roope's shoulders.] If my next book—my autumn book—isn't a mighty go, I—I'll eat my hat.

Roope.

[Sadly.] Dear excellent friend, perhaps you'll be obliged to, for nourishment.

Philip.

Ha, ha, ha! [Taking Roope's arm.] Oddly enough—oddly enough, the story deals with the very subject we've been discussing.

Roope.

[Without enthusiasm.] Indeed?

Philip.

Yes. You hit on the title a few minutes ago.

Roope.

Really?

Philip.

When you were talking of Ottoline and her people. [Dropping his voice.] "The Big Drum."

Roope.

[Thoughtfully.] C-c-capital!

Philip.

Titterton, my new publisher, is tremendously taken with the scheme of the thing—keen as mustard about it.

Roope.

Er—pardon me, Phil——

Philip.

Eh?

Roope.

[Fingering the lapel of Philip's coat.] I say, old man, you wouldn't be guilty of the deplorably bad taste of putting me into it, would you?

Philip.

[Slapping him on the back.] Ha, ha! My dear Robbie, half the polite world is in it. Don't tell me you wish to be left out in the cold!

Roope.

[Thoroughly alarmed.] Dear excellent friend——!

[Noyes enters again at the door on the left, preceding Collingham Green.

Noyes.

[Announcing Green, and then retiring.] Mr. Collingham Green.

Green.

[A gaily-dressed, genial soul, with a flower in his button-hole, a monocle, a waxed moustache, and a skilful arrangement of a sparse head of hair—shaking hands with Roope.] How are you, my deah fellow?

Roope.

My dear Colly, delighted to see you.

Green.

An awful scramble to get heah. I was afraid I shouldn't be able to manage it.

Roope.

You'd have broken our hearts if you hadn't. You know Mackworth?

Green.

And his charming works. [Shaking hands with Philip.] Haven't met you for evah so long.

Philip.

How d'ye do?

Green.

Ouf! I must sit down. [Sitting on the fauteuil-stool and taking off a pair of delicately tinted gloves.] The Season is killing me. I'm shaw I sha'n't last till Goodwood, Robbie.

Roope.

Yes, it's a shockin' rush, isn't it!

Green.

Haw! You only fancy you're rushed. Your life is a rest-cure compared with mine. You've no conception, either of you, what my days are just now.

Philip.

[Finding himself addressed.] Exhausting, no doubt.

Green.

Take to-day, for example. I was in my bath at half-past-seven——

Roope.