him. A year ago he lived in a garret re-writing his play _Divorce_. He now
rewrites _Divorce_ in a handsome house in Sussex.'

'I thought he had finished his play,' said Thompson. 'I heard that he was
going to take a theatre and produce it himself.'

'But did you not hear him say at dinner that he was re-writing as he
rehearsed? I met one of the actors yesterday. He doesn't know what to make
of it. He gets a new part every week to learn.'

'Do you think he'll ever produce it?'

'I doubt it. At the last moment he'll find that the third act doesn't
satisfy him, and will postpone the production till the spring.'

'What do you think of his work?'

'Very intelligent, but a little insipid--like himself. Look at him. _Il est
bien l'homme de ses ouvres_. There is something dry about him, and his
writings are like himself--hard, dry and wanting in personal passion.'

'Yet he talks charmingly, with vivacity and intelligence, and he is so full
of appreciation of Shakespeare, Goethe, and such genuine love for
antiquity.'

'I've heard him talk Shakespeare, Goethe, and Ibsen,' said Harding, 'but I
never heard him say anything new, anything personal. It seems to me that
you mistake quotation for perception. He assimilates, but he originates
nothing. He has read a great deal; he is covered with literature like a
rock with moss and lichen. He's appreciative, I will say that for him. He