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Updated: June 10, 2025
All agitation and emotion, she implored him to rise, and, with a thousand protestations, declared "that she thought the rashness of his action was the highest proof of his regard for her." Finding that Lord Frederick had gone when he had resigned the care of his ward to Miss Woodley, Dorriforth returned to his own apartment with a bosom torn by excruciating sensations.
The people at dinners. Florentia. Oh. they don't say anything in particular. Dorriforth. Doesn't that seem to show the effort isn't very suggestive? Amicia. The conversation at dinners certainly isn't. Dorriforth. I mean our contemporary drama. To begin with, you can't find it there's no text. Florentia. No text? Auberon. So much the better! Dorriforth.
Auberon. Never, never: it's the same old stage. The change is in ourselves. Florentia. Well, I never would have given an evening to what we have just seen. If one could have put it in between luncheon and tea, well enough. But one's evenings are too precious. Dorriforth. Florentia. I mean too precious for that sort of thing. Auberon.
I don't know what they put on the posters; but the plays are written and acted produced with great success. Dorriforth. Produced partly. A play isn't fully produced until it is in a form in which you can refer to it. We have to talk in the air. * Since the above was written several of Mr. Pinero's plays have been published. Florentia. The authors are not bound to publish them if they don't wish.
The old priest his name was Dorriforth looked uneasily from his host to his hostess. He felt that both these young people, whom he had known from childhood, and whom he loved well, had altered during the few weeks which had gone by since he had last seen them. Rather he mentally corrected himself it was the wife, Catherine, who was changed.
When Florentia said in her charming way Florentia. Here's my dreadful speech at last. Dorriforth. When you said that you went to the Théâtre Libre in the afternoon because you couldn't spare an evening, I recognized the death-knell of the drama. Time, the very breath of its nostrils, is lacking.
Dorriforth is only waiting for you, to say Mass for James's soul." She made the sign of the cross, and then, with her right hand shading her sunken eyes, she went on, "My dear, I entreat you to tell no one not even faithful Collins of this awful dream. We want no such tale spread about the place " She looked at the old priest entreatingly, and he at once responded. "Catherine is right, Charles.
How do you mean, what do we hear of it? Dorriforth. In what trumpet of fame does it reach us? They do what they can, the performers Auberon alludes to, and they are brave souls. But I am speaking of the conspicuous cases, of the exhibitions that draw. Florentia. There is good acting that draws; one could give you names and places. Dorriforth. I have already guessed those you mean.
The "adaptation" is unprintable. Dorriforth. That's where it's so wrong, It ought at least to be as good as the original. Auberon. Aren't there some "rights" to protect some risk of the play being stolen if it's published? Dorriforth. There may be I don't know.
You rail against scenery, but what could belong more to the order of things extraneous to what you perhaps a little priggishly call the delicacy of personal art than the arrangement you are speaking of? Dorriforth. I was talking of the abuse of scenery. I never said anything so idiotic as that the effect isn't helped by an appeal to the eye and an adumbration of the whereabouts. Auberon.
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