Denham.

No, as sincere praise.  I am never polite to people I like, and I like you.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Thanks.  I like to be liked; and I can forgive your want of politeness, if you are never more brutally rude than you have been.  I suppose I am to take it as the rudeness of a man of genius?

Denham.

No—­like all unsuccessful people who worry themselves over art—­I am only a man of some genius—­a very different thing, I assure you.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Are you unsuccessful?

Denham.

A man who paints pictures that please only his wife is surely unsuccessful?  But I don’t want to bore you with myself.  It only means that I feel we are friends already.

Mrs. Tremaine.

You don’t know how pleasant it is to be with people who don’t look upon me as a dreadfully wicked woman.

Denham.

No doubt, like all persons of distinction, you belong to the criminal classes; but we are all emancipated here.

(Re-enter Mrs. Denham and Miss Macfarlane, who goes straight to the fire as she speaks.)

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, Arthur, that precious black cat of yours!

Miss Macfarlane.

We’ve settled the curtains, now for the cat.

Denham.

What has he been doing now?

Mrs. Denham.

In the larder again.  Really that beast must be got rid of.  I will not stand such abominations any longer.

Denham.

Well, don’t ask me to be executioner, that’s all.

Mrs. Tremaine.

But surely you’re not going to kill a black cat?  It is awfully unlucky.

(Miss Macfarlane keeps Mrs. Tremaine under observation.)

Denham.

Are you superstitious?

Mrs. Tremaine.

I suppose I am.  Those peacock feathers made me shiver when I came in.

Mrs. Denham.

Are peacock’s feathers unlucky?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes; didn’t you know that?

Mrs. Denham.

No.

Denham.

Constance is not superstitious.  It is her worst fault.  A little superstition gives colour to life.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Do let me take the cat, Constance!

Mrs. Denham.

I am sure you are welcome to the beast.

Denham.

Thanks, Mrs. Tremaine.

Mrs. Denham.

Arthur, take Mrs. Tremaine down to have some tea.

Denham.

Will you come, Mrs. Tremaine?

(Exeunt Denham and Mrs. Tremaine.)

Miss Macfarlane.

(retaining Mrs. Denham) My dear, beware of that woman! (Crosses to Mrs. Denham.)

Mrs. Denham.

Of Blanche—­why?

Miss Macfarlane.

Ye have a husband, that’s all.

Mrs. Denham.

But you don’t suppose—­