Fitzgerald.
(_with fervour, sitting up in his chair, and flinging away his
half-smoked cigarette_) So I do. I enjoy the Human Comedy. Now you
don't enjoy the Human Comedy a bit.
Mrs. Denham.
It comes too near me.
Denham.
A cab at the door; this may be Vane. (_Crosses_ L _to
fire._)
Fitzgerald.
Vane? That's splendid! He cuts me dead now, because I reviewed his
last Society Verses, with some other men's, under the head, "Our
Minor Poets," in _Free Lances_.
Denham.
Oh, an editorial? Serves you right, you Jack-of-all-trades. How if
some brother Minor Critic were to class you as a Minor Painter?
Fitzgerald.
For Heaven's sake introduce me to him.
(_Enter Jane, showing in Vane._)
Jane.
Mr. Vane!
(_Exit Jane._)
(_Vane shakes hands languidly with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and
stares at Fitzgerald, who smiles genially._)
Denham.
Ah, Vane, glad to see you.
Vane.
How d'ye do? Ah, Mrs. Denham, that tea-gown is charming.
Mrs. Denham.
Flattery from you, Mr. Vane, is more than flattery. Pray excuse me
for a moment.
(_Exit Mrs. Denham._)
Denham.
Fitzgerald, you know Vane, of course?
Fitzgerald.
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