'Your
conception is clear enough; why don't you write the book?'
'Because there is nothing more to say on the subject. It is a subject for a
sketch, not for a book. But of this I'm sure, that the dry-rock man would
come out more clearly in a book than the soft, insipid, gentle,
companionable, red-bearded fellow.'
'If Price were the dry, sterile nature you describe, we should feel no
interest in him, we should not be discussing him as we are,' said Phillips.
'Yes, we should--Price suffers; we're interested in him because he
suffers--because he suffers in public--"I never was happy except on those
rare occasions when I thought I was a great man." In that sentence you'll
find the clew to his attractiveness. But in him there is nothing of the
irresponsible passion which is genius. There's that little Rose
Massey--that little baby who spends half her day dreaming, and who is as
ignorant as a cod-fish. Well, she has got that something--that undefinable
but always recognisable something. It was Price who discovered her. We used
to laugh at him when he said she had genius. He was right; we were wrong.
The other night I was standing in the wings; she was coming down from her
dressing-room--she lingered on the stairs, looking the most insignificant
little thing you can well imagine; but the moment her cue came a strange
light came into her eyes and a strange life was fused in her limbs; she was
transformed, and went on the stage a very symbol of passion and romance.
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