E Phillips Oppenheim

Berenice E Phillips Oppenheim

You may not care for the play," Ellison said eagerly. "You are of the old world, and Isteinismto you will simply spell chaos and vulgarity. But the woman! well, you will see her! I don'twant to prejudice you by praises which you would certainly think extravagant! I will saynothing."Matravers smiled gravely as he took his seat in the box and looked out with some wonderat the ill-lit, half-empty theatre."I am afraid," he said, "that I am very much out of place here, yet do not imagine that I bringwith me any personal bias whatever. I know nothing of the play, and Isteinism is merely aphrase to me. To-night I have no individuality. I am a critic.""So much depends," Ellison remarked, "upon the point of view. I am afraid that you are thelast man in the world to have any sympathy with the decadent.""I do not properly understand the use of the word 'decadent, '" Matravers said. "But youneed not be alarmed as to my attitude. Whatever my own gods may be, I am no slave tothem. Isteinism has its devotees, and whatever has had humanity and force enough in it toattract a following must at least demand a respectful attention from the Press. And to-nightI am the Press!""I am sorry," Ellison remarked, glancing out into the gloomy well of the theatre with animpatient frown, "that there is so bad a house to-night. It is depressing to play seriously to ahandful of people!""It will not affect my judgment," Matravers said