(He is silent for a while.  Suddenly he lifts his head)

My room at Eton, Dick said.  An untidy mess.

(As he lifts his head and says these words, twilight gives place to broad daylight, merely as a hint that the author of the play may have been mistaken, and the whole thing may have been no more than a poet’s dream.)

So it was, and it’s an untidy mess there (looking at screen) too.  Dick’s right.  I’ll tidy it up.  I’ll burn the whole damned heap. (He advances impetuously toward the screen) Every damned poem that I was ever fool enough to waste my time on.

(He pushes back the screen. FAME in a Greek dress with a long golden trumpet in her hand is seen standing motionless on the altar like a marble goddess.)

So ... you have come!

(For a while he stands thunderstruck.  Then he approaches the altar.)

Divine fair lady, you have come.

(He holds up his hands to her and leads her down from the altar and into the centre of the stage.  At whatever moment the actor finds it most convenient, he repossesses himself of the sonnet that he had placed on the altar.  He now offers it to FAME.)

This is my sonnet.  Is it well done?

(FAME takes it, reads it in silence, while the POET watches her rapturously.)

FAME.  You’re a bit of all right.

DE REVES.  What?

FAME.  Some poet.

DE REVES.  I—­I—­scarcely ... understand.

FAME.  You’re IT.

DE REVES.  But ... it is not possible ... are you she that knew Homer?

FAME.  Homer?  Lord, yes.  Blind old bat, ’e couldn’t see a yard.

DE REVES.  O Heavens!

(FAME walks beautifully to the window.  She opens it and puts her head out.)

FAME (in a voice with which a woman in an upper story would cry for help if the house was well alight).  Hi!  Hi!  Boys!  Hi!  Say, folks!  Hi!

(The murmur of a gathering crowd is heard. FAME blows her trumpet.)

FAME.  Hi, he’s a poet. (Quickly, over her shoulder.) What’s your name?

DE REVES.  De Reves.

FAME.  His name’s de Reves.

DE REVES.  Harry de Reves.

FAME.  His pals call him Harry.

THE CROWD.  Hooray!  Hooray!  Hooray!

FAME.  Say, what’s your favourite color?

DE REVES.  I ...  I ...  I don’t quite understand.

FAME.  Well, which do you like best, green or blue?

DE REVES.  Oh—­er—­blue. (She blows her trumpet out of the window.) No—­er—­I think green.

FAME.  Green is his favourite colour.

THE CROWD.  Hooray!  Hooray!  Hooray!

FAME.  ’Ere, tell us something.  They want to know all about yer.

DE REVES; Wouldn’t you perhaps ... would they care to hear my sonnet, if you would—­er....