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?

Wife. [Startled] Nothing!  Nothing!

[Her eyes waver to him again, and the faun vanishes.  She turns again to look at the boulder; there is nothing there; a little shiver of wind blows some petals off the trees.  She catches one of them, and turning quickly, goes out through the curtain.]

Prof. [Coming to himself and writing] “The Orpheus legend is the—­ er—­apotheosis of animism.  Can we accept——­” [His voice is lost in the sound of his wife’s voice beginning again:  “Orpheus with his lute—­with his lute made trees——­” It dies in a sob.  The professor looks up startled, as the curtain falls].