The placid voice, flowing on in gentle great content of itself
(while all the boarders gallantly refrained from eating), was
checked by an interruption which united into one shattering
impact the effects of lese-majeste and of violence.

"Couldn't! No! No parlour! Horrib--"

The words mingled in the throat of the playwright, producing an
explosion somewhere between choke and bellow, as he got upon his
feet, overturning his chair and coincidentally dislodging
several articles of china and glassware. He stood among the
ruins for one moment, publicly wiping his brow with a napkin,
then plunged, murmuring, out of the room and up the stairway;
and, before any of the company had recovered speech, the front
door was heard to slam tumultuously, its reverberations being
simultaneous with the sound of footsteps running down the stoop.

Turning northward upon the pavement, the fugitive hurriedly
passed the two lighted windows of the dining-room; they rattled
with a concussion--the outburst of suddenly released voices
beginning what was to be a protracted wake over the remains of
his reputation as a gentleman. He fled, flinging on his overcoat
as he went. In his pockets were portions of the manuscript of
his play, already distorted since rehearsal to suit the new
nobleness of "Roderick Hanscom," and among these inky sheets was
a note from Talbot Potter, received just before dinner:

Dear Mr. Canby,

Come up to my apartments at the Pantheon after dinner and let me