WIFE’s voice.  Yes.

Prof.  Where are you?

Wife. [Appearing by the stone with her hair down] Here!

Prof.  I say—­I—–­I’ve been asleep—­had a dream.  Come in.  I’ll tell you.

     [She comes, and they stand in the window.]

Prof.  I dreamed I saw a-faun on that boulder blowing on a pipe. [He looks nervously at the stone] With two damned little rabbits and a fox sitting up and listening.  And then from out there came our friend Orpheus playing on his confounded lute, till he actually turned that tree there into you.  And gradually he-he drew you like a snake till you—­er—­put your arms round his neck and—­er—­kissed him.  Boof!  I woke up.  Most unpleasant.  Why!  Your hair’s down!

Wife.  Yes.

Prof.  Why?

Wife.  It was no dream.  He was bringing me to life.

Prof.  What on earth?

Wife.  Do you suppose I am alive?  I’m as dead as Euridice.

Prof.  Good heavens, Blanche, what’s the matter with you to-night?

Wife. [Pointing to the litter of papers] Why don’t we live, instead of writing of it? [She points out unto the moonlight] What do we get out of life?  Money, fame, fashion, talk, learning?  Yes.  And what good are they?  I want to live!

Prof. [Helplessly] My dear, I really don’t know what you mean.

Wife. [Pointing out into the moonlight] Look!  Orpheus with his lute, and nobody can see him.  Beauty, beauty, beauty—­we let it go. [With sudden passion] Beauty, love, the spring.  They should be in us, and they’re all outside.

Prof.  My dear, this is—­this is—­awful. [He tries to embrace her.]

Wife. [Avoiding him—­an a stilly voice] Oh!  Go on with your writing!

Prof.  I’m—­I’m upset.  I’ve never known you so—­so——­

Wife.  Hysterical?  Well!  It’s over.  I’ll go and sing.

Prof. [Soothingly] There, there!  I’m sorry, darling; I really am. 
You’re kipped—­you’re kipped. [He gives and she accepts a kiss]
Better?

     [He gravitates towards his papers.]

All right, now?

Wife. [Standing still and looking at him] Quite!

Prof.  Well, I’ll try and finish this to-night; then, to-morrow we might have a jaunt.  How about a theatre?  There’s a thing—­they say —­called “Chinese Chops,” that’s been running years.

Wife. [Softly to herself as he settles down into his chair] Oh! 
God!

[While he takes up a sheet of paper and adjusts himself, she stands at the window staring with all her might at the boulder, till from behind it the faun’s head and shoulders emerge once more.]

Prof.  Very queer the power suggestion has over the mind.  Very queer!  There’s nothing really in animism, you know, except the curious shapes rocks, trees and things take in certain lights—­effect they have on our imagination. [He looks up] What’s the matter now?