Denham.

Well, I never had a better model.  I have learnt a lot since I began to paint you.

Mrs. Tremaine.

I am so glad if I have been of any use.  Have you ever painted
Constance?

Denham.

I have tried; but she’s a fidgety sitter, and always looks like an incarnation of despair. (He approaches her.) May I arrange these folds a little?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Certainly.

Denham.

(arranging skirt of dress) That will do.  The fan so—­head a little more to the left—­so. (He goes back, and paints in silence again.) This is coming splendidly.  I dare not do much more to the head.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Can you finish it to-day?

Denham.

As much as I can finish anything. (Paints again in silence.) I wish Constance had some of your reposeful quality.  I can’t think what ails her.  She gets more irritable and pessimistic every day.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Perhaps you irritate her.

Denham.

I?  But, good heavens!—­(Stops painting, and looks at her.)

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes, I know.  You think you are very patient, while you treat her with a—­what shall I say?—­a sort of contemptuous respect.

Denham.

Really?  I am sorry if it seems so.  I wish I could rouse her out of the slough of despond.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Perhaps she is disappointed?

Denham.

We are all disappointed.  It is the niggardliness of Nature—­the old woman in the shoe. (Paints again in silence.) Do you believe in love, Blanche?  Still?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(sighing) Yes, I think I do.  There is not very much else left for one to believe in, nowadays.

Denham.

So do I—­as a dream.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Ah!  You are the pessimist now.

Denham.

Why make mad efforts to realise it?

Mrs. Tremaine.

A necessity of our nature, I suppose.

Denham.

What does the modern woman desire or expect from a man?  You are sick of marriage, it seems.

Mrs. Tremaine.

As it exists—­yes.

Denham.

Well, the instinctive amourette had its poetry—­in Arcadia.  Keep your hands quiet a moment.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Let me warm them first.  Remember we are in the grip of a London
May.

Denham.

All right—­come. (She comes over to the picture.  He stops her.)
No, you must not look yet.

Mrs. Tremaine.

You have become quite a tyrant, do you know?

(She goes to the fire.)

Denham.

(taking her hands) Cold?  Yes; I have kept you too long.  You have such good hands!  I wish I could paint them.

Mrs. Tremaine.