Denham.

Why make mad efforts to realise it?

Mrs. Tremaine.

A necessity of our nature, I suppose.

Denham.

What does the modern woman desire or expect from a man? You are sick of marriage, it seems.

Mrs. Tremaine.

As it exists--yes.

Denham.

Well, the instinctive _amourette_ had its poetry--in Arcadia. Keep your hands quiet a moment.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Let me warm them first. Remember we are in the grip of a London May.

Denham.

All right--come. (_She comes over to the picture. He stops her._) No, you must not look yet.

Mrs. Tremaine.

You have become quite a tyrant, do you know?

(_She goes to the fire._)

Denham.

(_taking her hands_) Cold? Yes; I have kept you too long. You have such good hands! I wish I could paint them.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_kneels at fire, and warms her hands_) One more chance!

Denham.

I shall make the most of it. Well, but what do you want? A friendship, passionate and Platonic? Why, it takes all the tyranny of a strong man like Swift to keep instinct within bounds. The victory killed Stella and Vanessa.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Oh, we are more rational now! Then, there were two of them; that was the difficulty there.

Denham.

Yes, there were two of them. Except in a desert island, there is always a danger of that.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Why are men so inconstant?

Denham.

Why are women so charming--and unsatisfactory? We deceive ourselves, and are deceived, just like you.

Mrs. Tremaine.

You amuse yourselves, and we pay.

Denham.

It is the will of God--of Nature, I should say. She is an artist; but as for her morality--

Mrs. Tremaine.

One can't say much for that.

Denham.

Art is Nature's final aim. Love is the Art of Arts, and Art is long.

Mrs. Tremaine.

But could you not be a _little_ more constant, if you tried?

Denham.

Oh, _we_ can resist temptation, when we are not tempted--just like women.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Your _capacity_ for temptation is wonderful.

Denham.

Yes. _We_ know our own frailty, _you_ never quite realise yours.

Mrs. Tremaine.

What has made you so cynical?

Denham.