Denham.

I knew it must come to an end, Blanche. (_Crosses C._) Well, we have had a good time.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes. It has been pleasant here.

Denham.

You have been my good genius. Do you know, I was getting sick of it all before you came?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Sick of what?

Denham.

Of myself, of art, of life.

Mrs. Tremaine.

That was foolish. I am glad if I have reconciled you to existence.

Denham.

You have made me alive again, opened a door to new possibilities, let me out into the sunshine.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Well, don't go back into the shadow. (_Taking her hat, she goes towards mirror._)

Denham.

No. I will go forward.

Mrs. Tremaine.

That is right; and now I must go. (_About to take cloak._)

Denham.

No, you must not go yet. Come and sit upon your throne once more.

(_Mrs. Tremaine stops._)

Mrs. Tremaine.

But you are not going to paint again?

Denham.

No. I only want to look at you. Do grant me this last grace! (_He replaces chair on "throne."_)

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_puts down hat, and crosses L_) Really you are too absurd!

(_She sits on the "throne."_)

Denham.

(_crosses C_) Thanks. And now I want you to read something.

(_Goes to table and takes paper from drawer._)

Mrs. Tremaine.

What must I read?

Denham.

This sonnet.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Your own?

Denham.

Mine--and yours. Read it aloud.

Mrs. Tremaine.

I did not know you were a poet.

Denham.

Every man is a poet once in his life. You have made me one. (_He sits at her feet on the "throne."_)

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_Reads_):

TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

(_Looks down at him and smiles._)

Some women are Love's toys, kiss'd and flung by, Some his pale martyrs: thou art womanhood, Superbly symbol'd in rare flesh and blood.

Eternal Beauty, she for whom we sigh, Dowers thee with her own eternity; Thou art Love's sibyl: in proud solitude O'er his old mysteries thy deep eyes brood, And at thy feet his rich dominions lie.

Hast thou a heart? Let me desire it still.

Torture my heart to life with thy disdain; Yet smile, give me immortal dreams, still be My Muse, my inspiration, vision, will!

I ask no pity, I demand but pain: And if I love thee, what is that to thee?