Therefore it's not by Barrie, in
spite of the footman, who's cribbed from The Admirable Crichton. He
was an earl, you may remember. You notice, too, the author's
offensive habit of saying silly things that have no real sense in them
when you come to examine them, just to set all the fools in the house
giggling. Then what does it all come to? An attempt to expose the
supposed hypocrisy of the Puritan middle class in England: people
just as good as the author, anyhow. With, of course, the inevitable
improper female: the Mrs Tanqueray, Iris, and so forth. Well, if you
cant recognize the author of that, youve mistaken your professions:
thats all I have to say.
BANNAL. Why are you so down on Pinero? And what about that touch
that Gunn spotted? the Frenchman's long speech. I believe it's Shaw.
GUNN. Rubbish!
VAUGHAN. Rot! You may put that idea out of your head, Bannal. Poor
as this play is, theres the note of passion in it. You feel somehow
that beneath all the assumed levity of that poor waif and stray, she
really loves Bobby and will be a good wife to him. Now Ive repeatedly
proved that Shaw is physiologically incapable of the note of passion.
BANNAL. Yes, I know. Intellect without emotion. Thats right. I
always say that myself. A giant brain, if you ask me; but no heart.
GUNN. Oh, shut up, Bannal. This crude medieval psychology of heart
and brain--Shakespear would have called it liver and wits--is really
schoolboyish.
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