Every post brought newspapers; the room was filled with newspapers—­all kinds of newspapers—­papers one has never heard of,—­French papers, Welsh papers, North of England papers, Scotch and Irish papers.  Hubert read columns about himself, anecdotes of all kinds,—­where he was born, who were his parents, and what first induced him to attempt writing for the stage; his personal appearance, mode of life, the cut of his clothes; his religious, moral, and political views.  Had he been the plaintiff in an action for criminal libel, greater industry in the collection and the fabrication of personal details could hardly have been displayed.

But at these articles Hubert only glanced; he was interested in his piece, not in himself, and when Annie brought up The Modern Review he tore it open, knowing he would find there criticism more fundamental, more searching.  But as he read, the expression of hope which his face wore changed to one of pain pitiful to look upon.  The article began with a sketch of the general situation, and in a tone of commiseration, of benevolent malice, the writer pointed out how inevitable it was that the critics should have taken Mr. Price, when Divorce was first produced, for the new dramatic genius they were waiting for.  ‘There comes a moment,’ said this caustic writer, ’in the affairs of men when the new is not only eagerly accepted, but when it is confounded with the original.  Wearied by the old stereotyped form of drama, the critics had been astonished by a novelty of subject, more apparent than real, and by certain surface qualities in the execution; they had hailed the work as being original both in form and in matter, whereas all that was good in the play had been borrowed from France and Scandinavia. Divorce was the inevitable product of the time.  It had been written by Mr. Price, but it might have been written by a dozen other young men—­granting intelligence, youth, leisure, a university education, and three or four years of London life—­any one of a dozen clever young men who frequent West End drawing-rooms and dabble in literature might have written it.  All that could be said was that the play was, or rather had been, dans le mouvement; and original work never is dans le mouvement. Divorce was nothing more than the product of certain surroundings, and remembering Mr. Price’s other plays, there seemed to be no reason to believe that he would do better.  Mr. Price had tried his hand at criticism, and that was a sure sign that the creative faculty had begun to wither.  His critical essays were not rich nor abundant in thought, they were not the skirmishing of a man fighting for his ideas, they were not preliminary to a great battle; they were at once vague and pedantic, somewhat futile, les ébats d’un esprit en peine, and seemed to announce a talent in progress of disintegration rather than of reconstruction.