Fitzgerald.
Oh, I see! (_Resumes his book._)
Denham.
(_to Vane_) Have a cigarette? (_Denham offers him a cigarette; he
takes one absently, then lets it drop back into the box._)
Vane.
Thanks, no--I never smoke. It has become so vulgar.
Denham.
Really? What do you do then--_absinthe_?
Vane.
For the purposes of art it is antiquated. (_He sighs._) I have tried
_haschish_.
Denham.
Well?
Vane.
Without distinct results--for one's style, that is.
Denham.
Oh!
Vane.
One sometimes sees oneself inventing the Narghile. It involves the
black slave, of course, and might lead to a true retrogressive
progress--even to the _Harim_. One pities the superfluous woman,
there are so many about.
Denham.
Yet Mormonism seems to be a failure.
Vane.
It was so _dreadfully_ upholstered!
Denham.
The _Harim_ would be a new field for the collector. How prices would
run up!
Vane.
Ah, Denham, never touch a dream with the vulgarity of real things!
(_Crosses to picture._)
(_Fitzgerald, who has been reading Gyp, suddenly comes forward with
the book in his hand, and breaks in.
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