with the most extravagant flourishes between the lines.  I am not
sure that this is not a portent of Revolution.  In eighteenth
century France the end was at hand when men bought the
Encyclopedia and found Diderot there.  When I buy the Times and
find you there, my prophetic ear catches a rattle of twentieth
century tumbrils. 

However, that is not my present anxiety.  The question is, will
you not be disappointed with a Don Juan play in which not one of
that hero's mille e tre adventures is brought upon the stage? To
propitiate you, let me explain myself.  You will retort that I
never do anything else: it is your favorite jibe at me that what
I call drama is nothing but explanation.  But you must not expect
me to adopt your inexplicable, fantastic, petulant, fastidious
ways: you must take me as I am, a reasonable, patient,
consistent, apologetic, laborious person, with the temperament of
a schoolmaster and the pursuits of a vestryman.  No doubt that
literary knack of mine which happens to amuse the British public
distracts attention from my character; but the character is there
none the less, solid as bricks.  I have a conscience; and