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" And he blew out his
great round cheeks to invite a laugh at the expense of that foolish
critic.
"That's bad," said the swarthy and sardonic Polichinelle. He was
grave as Rhadamanthus pronouncing judgment. "That's bad. But what
is infinitely worse is that the audience had the impudence to be of
the same mind."
"An ignorant pack of clods," sneered Leandre, with a toss of his
handsome head.
"You are wrong," quoth Harlequin. "You were born for love, my dear,
not criticism."
Leandre - a dull dog, as you will have conceived - looked
contemptuously down upon the little man. "And you, what were you
born for?" he wondered.
"Nobody knows," was the candid admission. "Nor yet why. It is the
case of many of us, my dear, believe me."
"But why" - M. Binet took him up, and thus spoilt the beginnings of
a very pretty quarrel - "why do you say that Leandre is wrong?"
"To be general, because he is always wrong. To be particular,
because I judge the audience of Guichen to be too sophisticated
for 'The Heartless Father.


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