[She appears.  Much younger than the professor, pale, very pretty, of a Botticellian type in face, figure, and in her clinging cream-coloured frock.  She gazes at her abstracted husband; then swiftly moves to the lintel of the open window, and stands looking out.]

The wife.  God!  What beauty!

Prof. [Looking Up] Umm?

The wife.  I said:  God!  What beauty!

Prof.  Aha!

The wife. [Looking at him] Do you know that I have to repeat everything to you nowadays?

Prof.  What?

The wife.  That I have to repeat——­

Prof.  Yes; I heard.  I’m sorry.  I get absorbed.

The wife.  In all but me.

Prof. [Startled] My dear, your song was helping me like anything to get the mood.  This paper is the very deuce—­to balance between the historical and the natural.

The wife.  Who wants the natural?

Prof. [Grumbling] Umm!  Wish I thought that!  Modern taste!  History may go hang; they’re all for tuppence-coloured sentiment nowadays.

The wife. [As if to herself] Is the Spring sentiment?

Prof.  I beg your pardon, my dear; I didn’t catch.

Wife. [As if against her will—­urged by some pent-up force] Beauty, beauty!

Prof.  That’s what I’m, trying to say here.  The Orpheus legend symbolizes to this day the call of Beauty! [He takes up his pen, while she continues to stare out at the moonlight.  Yawning] Dash it!  I get so sleepy; I wish you’d tell them to make the after-dinner coffee twice as strong.

Wife.  I will.

Prof.  How does this strike you? [Conning] “Many Renaissance pictures, especially those of Botticelli, Francesca and Piero di Cosimo were inspired by such legends as that of Orpheus, and we owe a tiny gem—­like Raphael ‘Apollo and Marsyas’ to the same Pagan inspiration.”

Wife.  We owe it more than that—­rebellion against the dry-as-dust.

Prof.  Quite.  I might develop that:  “We owe it our revolt against the academic; or our disgust at ‘big business,’ and all the grossness of commercial success.  We owe——­“. [His voice peters out.]

Wife.  It—­love.

Prof. [Abstracted] Eh!

Wife.  I said:  We owe it love.

Prof. [Rather startled] Possibly.  But—­er [With a dry smile]
I mustn’t say that here—­hardly!

Wife. [To herself and the moonlight] Orpheus with his lute!

Prof.  Most people think a lute is a sort of flute. [Yawning heavily] My dear, if you’re not going to sing again, d’you mind sitting down?  I want to concentrate.

Wife.  I’m going out.