about yourself in a newspaper, and you think I'm an idiot for
believing it. But you read nonsense about me, and you believe
it. You don't stop and think; 'That's a lie; he isn't that sort
of a man.' No. You just wonder why I'm such a darn fool."

"Then these cannibals have got us where--"

"Dotage!" Talbot Potter broke in, halting under the chandelier.
"Tinker's reached his dotage!" He levelled a denouncing forefinger
at the manager. "Do you mean to tell me that if I decide to go on
with Mr. Canby's play any critic or combination or cabal of critics
can keep it from being a success? Then I tell you, you're in your
dotage! For one point, if I play this part they're going to say it's
a big thing; I don't mean the play, of course, because you must
know, yourself, Mr. Canby, we could bribe them into calling it a
strong play. We know it isn't, and they'll know it isn't. What I
mean is the characterization of 'Roderick Hanscom.' I tell you, if I
do it, they're going to call it a big thing. They aren't all maniacs
about everything made in France, thank heaven! Rostand! Ass! I'm not
playing parts with a clothespin on the end of my nose!" And again he
mimicked the departed visitor: "'This for my stirrup-cup: you cable
Rostand tomorrow.' My soul! Does he think I want to play CHICKENS?"

Sulphurously, he resumed his pacing of the floor.

Old Tinker seemed unaffected by this outburst, but for that
matter he seemed unaffected by anything. His dead gaze followed
his employer's to-and-fro striding as a cat's follows a
pendulum, but without the cat's curiosity about a pendulum. He
never interrupted when Potter was speaking; and Canby noticed