Phyllis of Philistia [25]
face when he perceived, as he did in spite of the engrossing nature of his conversation with his friend in the end stall, how his designs had been defeated by her tactics. She would not have minded having Herbert Courtland with her for the hour they might remain at the theater, but she had made up her mind that it was not to Phyllis' advantage that Mr. Holland should continue by her side in public after she had given him his dismissal.
She also perceived, with even greater gratification, that Herbert Courtland was looking nearly as dissatisfied with the result of her tactics as George Holland. If he had looked pleased at being by the side of Phyllis when he expected to be with her--Ella--what would life be worth to her?
But if he was dissatisfied at being with Phyllis instead of Mrs. Linton, he did not consider that any reason for neglecting the former. He wondered if she had any choice in sandwiches--of course she had in champagne. His curiosity was satisfied, and Phyllis was amply provided for.
"You are Mrs. Linton's dearest friend," he remarked casually, as they leaned up against the profile of the Church scene in "Cagliostro," for they were standing in the "wings"--to be exact--on the O. P. side.
"She is my dearest friend, at any rate," said Phyllis.
"You were not at school together. She is four or five years older than you."
"Only three. When she got married she seemed to me to be almost venerable. Three years seemed a long time then."
"But now you fancy that you have formed a right idea of what is meant by three years?"
"Well, a better idea, at any rate."
"You are still a good way off it. But if you have formed a right estimate of a woman's friendship----"
"That's still something, you mean to say? But why did you stop short, Mr. Courtland?"
Phyllis was looking up to his face with a smile of inquiry.
"I was afraid that you might think I was on the way to preach a sermon on the text of woman's friendship. I pulled myself up just in time. I'm glad that I didn't frighten you."
"Oh, no; you didn't frighten me, Mr. Courtland. I was only wondering how you would go on--whether you would treat the topic sentimentally or cynically."
"And what conclusion did you come to on the subject?"
"I know that you are a brave man--perhaps the bravest man alive. You would, I think, have treated the question seriously--feelingly."
He laughed.
"The adoption of that course implies courage certainly. All the men of sentimentality--which is something quite different from sentiment, mind you--have taken to writing melodrama and penny novelettes. You didn't hear much sentimentality on this stage to-night, or any other night, for that matter."
"No; it would have sounded unreal. A Parthenon audience would resent what they believed to be a false note in art; and a Parthenon audience is supposed to be the concentration of the spirit of the period in thought and art; isn't it?"
"I don't know. I'm half a savage. But I like to think the best of a Parthenon audience; you and I formed part of that concentration to-night--yes, I like to think the best of it. I suppose we know--we, the Parthenon audience, I mean--what our feelings are on the art of acting--the art of play-writing."
"I shouldn't like to have to define my feelings at a moment's notice."
"One must make a beginning, and then work up gradually to the definition."
"For instance----"
"Well, for instance, there's something that people call realism nowadays."
"My father has his ideas on what's called realism," Phyllis laughed. " 'Realism in painting is the ideal with a smudge.' "
"I should like to hear what you think of it?"
He also laughed sympathetically.
"Oh, I only venture to think that realism is the opposite to reality."
"And, so far as I can gather, your definition is not wanting in breadth--no, nor in accuracy. Sentimentality is the opposite to sentiment."
"That is a point on which we agreed a moment ago. My father says that sentiment is a strong man's concealment of what he feels, while sentimentality is
She also perceived, with even greater gratification, that Herbert Courtland was looking nearly as dissatisfied with the result of her tactics as George Holland. If he had looked pleased at being by the side of Phyllis when he expected to be with her--Ella--what would life be worth to her?
But if he was dissatisfied at being with Phyllis instead of Mrs. Linton, he did not consider that any reason for neglecting the former. He wondered if she had any choice in sandwiches--of course she had in champagne. His curiosity was satisfied, and Phyllis was amply provided for.
"You are Mrs. Linton's dearest friend," he remarked casually, as they leaned up against the profile of the Church scene in "Cagliostro," for they were standing in the "wings"--to be exact--on the O. P. side.
"She is my dearest friend, at any rate," said Phyllis.
"You were not at school together. She is four or five years older than you."
"Only three. When she got married she seemed to me to be almost venerable. Three years seemed a long time then."
"But now you fancy that you have formed a right idea of what is meant by three years?"
"Well, a better idea, at any rate."
"You are still a good way off it. But if you have formed a right estimate of a woman's friendship----"
"That's still something, you mean to say? But why did you stop short, Mr. Courtland?"
Phyllis was looking up to his face with a smile of inquiry.
"I was afraid that you might think I was on the way to preach a sermon on the text of woman's friendship. I pulled myself up just in time. I'm glad that I didn't frighten you."
"Oh, no; you didn't frighten me, Mr. Courtland. I was only wondering how you would go on--whether you would treat the topic sentimentally or cynically."
"And what conclusion did you come to on the subject?"
"I know that you are a brave man--perhaps the bravest man alive. You would, I think, have treated the question seriously--feelingly."
He laughed.
"The adoption of that course implies courage certainly. All the men of sentimentality--which is something quite different from sentiment, mind you--have taken to writing melodrama and penny novelettes. You didn't hear much sentimentality on this stage to-night, or any other night, for that matter."
"No; it would have sounded unreal. A Parthenon audience would resent what they believed to be a false note in art; and a Parthenon audience is supposed to be the concentration of the spirit of the period in thought and art; isn't it?"
"I don't know. I'm half a savage. But I like to think the best of a Parthenon audience; you and I formed part of that concentration to-night--yes, I like to think the best of it. I suppose we know--we, the Parthenon audience, I mean--what our feelings are on the art of acting--the art of play-writing."
"I shouldn't like to have to define my feelings at a moment's notice."
"One must make a beginning, and then work up gradually to the definition."
"For instance----"
"Well, for instance, there's something that people call realism nowadays."
"My father has his ideas on what's called realism," Phyllis laughed. " 'Realism in painting is the ideal with a smudge.' "
"I should like to hear what you think of it?"
He also laughed sympathetically.
"Oh, I only venture to think that realism is the opposite to reality."
"And, so far as I can gather, your definition is not wanting in breadth--no, nor in accuracy. Sentimentality is the opposite to sentiment."
"That is a point on which we agreed a moment ago. My father says that sentiment is a strong man's concealment of what he feels, while sentimentality is