Ah, Vane, glad to see you.

Vane.

How d'ye do? Ah, Mrs. Denham, that tea-gown is charming.

Mrs. Denham.

Flattery from you, Mr. Vane, is more than flattery. Pray excuse me for a moment.

(_Exit Mrs. Denham._)

Denham.

Fitzgerald, you know Vane, of course?

Fitzgerald.

Upon my word I scarcely know. _Do_ we know each other, Vane?

Vane.

My dear Fitzgerald, when will you learn that you can never know me?

(_Crosses to picture._)

Fitzgerald.

Then, my dear Vane, I must learn to be resigned. (_Fitzgerald turns away, and takes up Gyp. Vane looks at the picture._) What's this?

"Autour du Marriage," eh? (_Opens book, and reads, then lies on sofa, still reading._)

Vane.

Ah, the Brynhild! My dear Denham, why _will_ you do such things?

Denham.

What have I done?

Vane.

Not what you have tried to do--to paint an epic picture.

Denham.

Is that wrong?

Vane.

Worse than wrong; it is a _betise_. (_Comes to fire, and stands with his back to it._) You might as well try to write a long poem. Such things are certainly _long_, and as certainly not _poems_. That huge thing is not a picture.

Denham.

Ah, you write quatrains. Should no poem exceed four lines?

Vane.

Not only should not, but in our present state of development, _cannot_. The quatrain is the analogue of the Greek gem, the _consummate_ flower of the national art of the period. It will take at _least_ a century to perfect and exhaust it. Have you seen my book, "Three Quatrains"?

Denham.

No; have you published it lately?

Vane.

My dear Denham! I never _publish_ anything. In a wilderness of mediocrity obscurity is fame.

Denham.

Yes, a well-advertised obscurity. But surely you _have_ published poems?

Vane.

Where have you lived, my dear fellow? I breathe a poem into the air, and the world hears. If some one prints it, can I help it? One does not print, wake, and become famous; one becomes famous, and the world awakes, cackles, and prints one.

Fitzgerald.

By-the-bye, Vane, there's a quatrain in your "In the House of Hathor" I wanted to ask you about.

Vane.

Which?

Fitzgerald.

Let me see--it begins:

"I saw a serpent in my Lady's heart,"--

Vane.

Ah! spare me the torment of hearing--

Fitzgerald.

Your own lines?

Vane.

_Mur_-dered!