PRATTLE: I say--writing's no good. What do you write?

DE REVES: Oh, poetry.

PRATTLE: Poetry! Good Lord!

DE REVES: Yes, that sort of thing, you know.

PRATTLE: Good Lord! Do you make any money by it?

DE REVES: No. Hardly any.

PRATTLE: I say--why don't you chuck it?

DE REVES: Oh, I don't know. Some people seem to like my stuff, rather.

That's why I go on.

PRATTLE: I'd chuck it if there's no money in it.

DE REVES: Ah, but then it's hardly in your line, is it? You'd hardly approve of poetry if there _was_ money in it.

PRATTLE: Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetry as I can by betting I don't say I wouldn't try the poetry touch, only----

DE REVES: Only what?

PRATTLE: Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more sense in betting, somehow.

DE REVES: Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what an earthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus----

PRATTLE: What's Pegasus?

DE REVES: Oh, the winged horse of poets.

PRATTLE: I say! You don't believe in a winged horse, do you?

DE REVES: In our trade we believe in all fabulous things. They all represent some large truth to us. An emblem like Pegasus is as real a thing to a poet as a Derby winner would be to you.

PRATTLE: I say. (Give me a cigarette. Thanks.) What? Then you'd believe in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all those kind of birds?

DE REVES: Yes. Yes. In all of them.

PRATTLE: Good Lord!

DE REVES: You believe in the Lord Mayor of London, don't you?

PRATTLE: Yes, of course; but what has----

DE REVES: Four million people or so made him Lord Mayor, didn't they?

And he represents to them the wealth and dignity and tradition of----

PRATTLE: Yes; but, I say, what has all this----

DE REVES: Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made him Lord Mayor, and so he is one....

PRATTLE: Well, of course he is.

DE REVES: In the same way Pan has been made what he is by millions; by millions to whom he represents world-old traditions.

PRATTLE (_rising from his chair and stepping backwards, laughing and looking at the_ POET _in a kind of a.s.sumed wonder_): I say ... I say ...

You old heathen ... but Good Lord ...

[_He b.u.mps into the high screen behind, pushing it back a little._

DE REVES: Look out! Look out!

PRATTLE: What? What's the matter?

DE REVES: The screen!

PRATTLE: Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right.

[_He is about to go round behind it._

DE REVES: No, don't go round there.

PRATTLE: What? Why not?

DE REVES: Oh, you wouldn't understand.

PRATTLE: Wouldn't understand? Why, what have you got?

DE REVES: Oh, one of those things.... You wouldn't understand.

PRATTLE: Of course I'd understand. Let's have a look.

[_The_ POET _walks towards_ PRATTLE _and the screen. He protests no further._ PRATTLE _looks round the corner of the screen._

An altar.

DE REVES (_removing the screen altogether_): That is all. What do you make of it?

[_An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is revealed. Papers litter the floor all about it._

PRATTLE: I say--you always were an untidy devil.

DE REVES: Well, what do you make of it?

PRATTLE: It reminds me of your room at Eton.

DE REVES: My room at Eton?