Mrs. Denham.
Very poetical, no doubt.
Denham.
Bitter truth, as you are never tired of demonstrating to me. Do you
think the unfortunate cross has not had his share of the torment?
Mrs. Denham.
Too light a share for his tyranny, cruelty, and, above all, his
_mean_ hypocrisy. May he burn in some spiritual fire for that!
Denham.
So he does; it runs in his veins. Well, something better may come of
it, some day. By-the-bye, I expect some men to see my picture.
Mrs. Denham.
Brynhild?
Denham.
Yes, such as she is. (_Crosses_ R, _and looks at the
picture._) Another failure, of course. (_Sighs._)
Mrs. Denham.
Why will you always speak of your work so despondently?
Denham.
Because I want to do better. Vanity, I suppose. (_He comes back
towards the fireplace._)
Mrs. Denham.
Just move out this sofa. (_They move sofa to_ C.) Who are
coming?
Denham.
Oh, Fitzgerald, of course, and possibly Cyril Vane.
Mrs. Denham. That little creature? You know I detest him.
Denham.
Why _little_? Do you estimate men of genius by the pound?
Mrs. Denham.
Men of genius, indeed? The man has a second-hand intellect.
Pages:
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44