What must I read?

Denham.

This sonnet.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Your own?

Denham.

Mine—­and yours.  Read it aloud.

Mrs. Tremaine.

I did not know you were a poet.

Denham.

Every man is a poet once in his life.  You have made me one. (He sits at her feet on the “throne.")

Mrs. Tremaine.

(Reads): 

TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

(Looks down at him and smiles.)

    Some women are Love’s toys, kiss’d and flung by,
      Some his pale martyrs:  thou art womanhood,
      Superbly symbol’d in rare flesh and blood. 
    Eternal Beauty, she for whom we sigh,
    Dowers thee with her own eternity;
      Thou art Love’s sibyl:  in proud solitude
      O’er his old mysteries thy deep eyes brood,
    And at thy feet his rich dominions lie. 
    Hast thou a heart?  Let me desire it still. 
      Torture my heart to life with thy disdain;
        Yet smile, give me immortal dreams, still be
    My Muse, my inspiration, vision, will! 
      I ask no pity, I demand but pain: 
        And if I love thee, what is that to thee?

It sounds very well; but I’m afraid I don’t quite understand it.

Denham.

That is the highest praise you could give it; if it be unintelligible it must be fine.  It means “mes hommages!” (Kisses her hand.) And now come down! (He hands her down from the “throne".)

Mrs. Tremaine.

(with a shy laugh, crosses R) But you don’t mean to say that you have said all those fine words about me?

Denham.

Yes—­to you, Blanche.  I love you.  What is that to you? (Comes down to fire.)

Mrs. Tremaine.

It is very flattering, no doubt, to be made love to in pretty verses. (With a mocking smile.) Is this your “situation” at last?

Denham.

Yes, it is a situation.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(sharply) Oh, I see!  I am to be a sort of lay figure for your poetry, as well as your painting; the Laura of this new Petrarch.  Thank you! (She bows with a little laugh.)

Denham.

I love you, Blanche, I love you!

Mrs. Tremaine.

Say it in verse as much as you like.  It does not sound nice in prose.  Don’t let us make fools of ourselves, Mr. Denham.

Denham.

We can’t avoid it, Mrs. Tremaine.  To do it with dignity is all that can be expected of us.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(with increased vexation) That’s impossible. (Crosses R, and takes cloak.) Don’t let us spoil a pleasant friendship with nonsense of this kind.  Let me keep that—­and your sonnet—­and good-bye!

(She comes down to L C. Denham takes her cloak and puts it on her, keeping his hands on her shoulders.)