Just why the name of "Purity" should have been bestowed upon the piece which is at present adorning the stage of the Plymouth is very hard to say. When one sees that Florence Reed is the star of the production, one begins to suspect its purity, and when one sees the production itself, all suspicion is confirmed in a most thoroughgoing fashion. There is nothing pure, either morally or artistically, about "Purity."

At the end of a rather tedious evening of sitting and waiting--waiting for the end--one gets the impression that the author of the play has a message and that in order to convey it to the world, he has gone out and made a careful compilation of all platitudes about the inherent badness of human nature and the essentially raw deal which life hands out to us. In fact he may even have contributed a few original platitudes. At all events there is a didactic spuriousness about it all which almost defies description and wouldn't in any case be worthy of description.

Life may be pretty bad. Perhaps no one has any decency or at least no one with any decency has a chance of enjoying life. Maybe every one is out to get as much out of everyone else as he or she possibly can: and if you don't realize it you're very little but a fool. Maybe all tlris and a lot more is true; but this reviewer doesn't believe it. And therefore this reviewer would be forced to cast one vote against "Purity" even if it were well conceived and written, something which certainly cannot be said in its favor.