"I saw the serpent of my Lady's heart, Lovely and leprous; and a violet sigh Shook the wan, yellowing leaves of threnody, Bruised in the holy chalice of my Art."

Fitzgerald.

Ah yes! I didn't quite catch the meaning.

Vane.

Meaning? It is a piece of _mu_-sic, in which I have skilfully e-_lu_-ded ALL _meaning_.

Fitzgerald.

Oh, I see! (_Resumes his book._)

Denham.

(_to Vane_) Have a cigarette? (_Denham offers him a cigarette; he takes one absently, then lets it drop back into the box._)

Vane.

Thanks, no--I never smoke. It has become so vulgar.

Denham.

Really? What do you do then--_absinthe_?

Vane.

For the purposes of art it is antiquated. (_He sighs._) I have tried _haschish_.

Denham.

Well?

Vane.

Without distinct results--for one's style, that is.

Denham.

Oh!

Vane.

One sometimes sees oneself inventing the Narghile. It involves the black slave, of course, and might lead to a true retrogressive progress--even to the _Harim_. One pities the superfluous woman, there are so many about.

Denham.

Yet Mormonism seems to be a failure.

Vane.

It was so _dreadfully_ upholstered!

Denham.

The _Harim_ would be a new field for the collector. How prices would run up!

Vane.

Ah, Denham, never touch a dream with the vulgarity of real things!

(_Crosses to picture._)

(_Fitzgerald, who has been reading Gyp, suddenly comes forward with the book in his hand, and breaks in._)

Fitzgerald.

This Gyp's _awfully_ good. Who is he, eh?

Vane.

(_with patient scorn_) A woman!

Fitzgerald.

(_with conviction_) To be sure! That makes it--splendid! (_Chuckles to himself, sits again on sofa, and goes on reading._)

Vane.

(_looking at picture_) Will you never learn to be an _artist_, Denham? The modern picture should be a painted quatrain, with colours for words--words which say nothing, because everything has been said, but which _suggest_ all that has been felt and dreamed.

Art is the initiation into a mood, a mystery--a sphinx whose riddle every one can answer, yet no one understand.

Fitzgerald.

(_shutting the book on his finger_) Bravo, Vane! 'Pon my word, I begin to believe in you.

Vane.

I can endure even that.

Denham.

I am on the wrong tack then?

Vane.

My dear fellow, look at that canvas. What a method! You are like an amateur pianist who tries laboriously to obtain tone, without having mastered the keyboard. One cannot _blunder_ into great art. Only Englishmen make the attempt. You are a nation of amateurs. (_He turns away, and sees a sketch on the_ L _wall_) Did you do this?

Denham.