Fitzgerald.

A Captain Crosby or Cosby, or something. He's in some horse regiment, the cavalry or something. He's--he's an awful scamp, a blackleg and all that, but an awfully nice fellow. I met him at Smith's the other day, and they--they--they were carrying on all the time under poor little Smith's nose. (_He saunters absently to the easel and looks at the picture._) The picture--eh? It's--it's awfully good, you know--an advance on your last.

(_During this speech Denham also goes to the easel._)

Mrs. Denham.

Don't you think so?

Fitzgerald.

Yes, it's an advance, decidedly. What is it, eh? I forget.

Denham.

Brynhild.

Fitzgerald.

Oh, Brynhild! The horse is awfully good, you know--savage and that; but the woman isn't ugly enough--at least, you haven't quite got the right kind of ugliness, eh?

Denham.

Unfortunately I meant her to be beautiful.

Mrs. Denham.

(_smiling_) And I gave him some sittings, Mr. Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald.

(_with a genial laugh_) Did you, now? Well, he tried to improve on you--that was it. (_With great conviction to Denham._) But--but surely you're wrong in that. Brynhild was an ugly, passionate woman.

The passionate woman is always ugly. The passionate woman has character, and character is always ugly.

Denham.

Yes, I know what you mean. But I thought--no, the thing's a failure.

Don't bother about it, but come and sit down. Have a cigarette?

(_Gives him a cigarette._)

Fitzgerald.

Thanks.

(_They sit down, Fitzgerald lights cigarette, and puffs solemnly before he speaks again._)

Mrs. Smith (_puff_), you didn't know her well? Did you, Mrs. Denham?

(_Puff._)

Mrs. Denham.

No--not well.

Fitzgerald.

You know I painted her portrait (_looks at lighted end of cigarette_), portrait (_leans back in his chair, replaces cigarette in his mouth, and puffs again. Then putting his hands behind his head, he stretches out his legs, and looks at the ceiling_), so I knew her like my own sister. (_Puff._) She was a pretty little devil (_puff_), awfully aristocratic, mind you, vulgar, of course, an'--an' poor refined little Smith just _didn't_ drop his H's.

(_Puffs, chuckles to himself._) Yes, she was a born jade. (_Puff._) I--I liked her awfully. (_Puff._)

Mrs. Denham.

You seem to like every one awfully.

Fitzgerald.

(_with fervour, sitting up in his chair, and flinging away his half-smoked cigarette_) So I do. I enjoy the Human Comedy. Now you don't enjoy the Human Comedy a bit.

Mrs. Denham.

It comes too near me.

Denham.

A cab at the door; this may be Vane. (_Crosses_ L _to fire._)

Fitzgerald.

Vane? That's splendid! He cuts me dead now, because I reviewed his last Society Verses, with some other men's, under the head, "Our Minor Poets," in _Free Lances_.

Denham.

Oh, an editorial? Serves you right, you Jack-of-all-trades. How if some brother Minor Critic were to class you as a Minor Painter?

Fitzgerald.

For Heaven's sake introduce me to him.

(_Enter Jane, showing in Vane._)

Jane.

Mr. Vane!

(_Exit Jane._)

(_Vane shakes hands languidly with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and stares at Fitzgerald, who smiles genially._)

Denham.