My brush did it somehow.

Vane.

Ah! this is exquisite--or would be if you could paint. Why, _why_ not learn the technique of your art, and make these notes of a mood, a moment, so as to give real delight?

Denham.

Upon my word, Vane, you are right. That sketch is worth a wilderness of Brynhilds. But look here! (_Crosses to picture. He opens a pocket knife, and makes a long cut across the figure of Brynhild._) There goes a year's work.

Fitzgerald.

(_rising_) By Jove!

Vane.

My dear fellow, I congratulate you. The year's work is not thrown away--now. (_Re-enter Mrs. Denham._)

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, Mr. Vane, what have you made him do?

Vane.

My dear Mrs. Denham, I have saved your husband's reputation for a few months at least. He cannot do anything so _consummately_ bad in _less_. Pray, pray, do not try to understand art! Women never can; they have not yet developed the sixth sense--the sense of _Beauty_.

But I must really tear myself away.

(_Mrs. Denham sits gloomily on throne, ignoring Vane._)

Denham.

Won't you stay and have some tea?

Vane.

Thanks, no. Lady Mayfair made me promise to go and hear her new tenor. One knows what one has to expect, but one goes.

(_Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane._)

Jane.

Miss Macfarlane!

(_Miss Macfarlane shakes hands with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and nods to Fitzgerald and Vane._)

Miss Macfarlane.

How d'ye do, Fitz? Ah, Vane! you here? Don't run away.

Vane.

Unfortunately I must. The wounds of our last encounter are not yet healed.

Miss Macfarlane.

Pshaw, man! _I_ don't use poisoned weapons.

Vane.

Ah, Miss Macfarlane, the broadsword is very effective in your hands!

(_Going._)

Fitzgerald.

Oh, Vane, will you dine with me at the Bohemians on Friday? I want you to hear--

Vane.

The Bohemians? Impossible!

Fitzgerald.

You'll see life, at any rate.

Vane.

My dear fellow, I _have_ seen life. _Don't_ ask me to see it again.

It is a painful spectacle. Adieu!

(_Exit._)

Miss Macfarlane.

(_looking at picture_) Why, what's all this?

Mrs. Denham.

Arthur, I shall never forgive you for destroying your picture--just because that wretched little creature was spiteful about it.

Denham.

Pooh! He wasn't spiteful. He only told me the truth about it, in his own jargon. I knew it already.

Miss Macfarlane.

Oh, but it's none so bad, my dear boy--if it's a failure, it's a good wholesome failure. (_Crosses_ L _to fire._)

(_Enter Jane, showing in Mrs. Tremaine._)

Jane.