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.

Ah, Vane, glad to see you.

Vane.

How d’ye do?  Ah, Mrs. Denham, that tea-gown is charming.

Mrs. Denham.

Flattery from you, Mr. Vane, is more than flattery.  Pray excuse me for a moment.

(Exit Mrs. Denham.)

Denham.

Fitzgerald, you know Vane, of course?

Fitzgerald.

Upon my word I scarcely know. Do we know each other, Vane?

Vane.

My dear Fitzgerald, when will you learn that you can never know me? (Crosses to picture.)

Fitzgerald.

Then, my dear Vane, I must learn to be resigned. (Fitzgerald turns away, and takes up Gyp.  Vane looks at the picture.) What’s this?  “Autour du Marriage,” eh? (Opens book, and reads, then lies on sofa, still reading.)

Vane.

Ah, the Brynhild!  My dear Denham, why will you do such things?

Denham.

What have I done?

Vane.

Not what you have tried to do—­to paint an epic picture.

Denham.

Is that wrong?

Vane.

Worse than wrong; it is a betise. (Comes to fire, and stands with his back to it.) You might as well try to write a long poem.  Such things are certainly long, and as certainly not poems.  That huge thing is not a picture.

Denham.

Ah, you write quatrains.  Should no poem exceed four lines?

Vane.

Not only should not, but in our present state of development, cannot.  The quatrain is the analogue of the Greek gem, the consummate flower of the national art of the period.  It will take at least a century to perfect and exhaust it.  Have you seen my book, “Three Quatrains”?