Mrs. Denham.

Take pity on me then.

Fitzgerald.

I know this’ll interest you awfully.  Pottleton Smith’s wife’s run away at last.  Now wasn’t I right? (Looks smilingly at both for sympathy.) I always said she would, you know.

Mrs. Denham.

Poor silly little flirt!  I’m very sorry.

Fitzgerald.

(rubbing his hands) I’m—­I’m awfully glad.  It’ll be the saving of poor Smith.  Though he’s awfully cut up about it, of course.

Denham.

Did she run away with—­any one in particular?

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.)