to say. "Macklyn is one of those fearful people who are always honest. You know his work, don't you?"
"Ah"—Ogle said, and then after a moment, risked a lie of courtesy. "Oh, yes—yes, indeed."
Mr. Macklyn shook his head, frowning. He was a serious-looking, bushy-brawed, swarthy young man; and although for the moment his attitude might be languid his expression was earnest, even severe, seeming to be so habitually. "I fear you say that out of mere kindness, Mr. Ogle. My work is not well known. Necessarily it can be for only the few. I should much prefer to write frankly for the many as you do; but I doubt if I'd know how. It requires another technique, one that I admire none the less. I don't underrate the importance of any man who can reach the mob, Mr. Ogle. The rewards are enormous and the art can be sincere where perhaps it can't always be searching."
"'Searching'?" Ogle said inquiringly; and with no very hearty approval he looked upon this friend of his friend and wondered how Mr. Macklyn happened upon the particular word. "Searching" was precisely what his new play had been called by all of the five most intelligent critics he knew. Not one
