My brush did it somehow.
Vane.
Ah! this is exquisite--or would be if you could paint. Why, _why_
not learn the technique of your art, and make these notes of a mood,
a moment, so as to give real delight?
Denham.
Upon my word, Vane, you are right. That sketch is worth a wilderness
of Brynhilds. But look here! (_Crosses to picture. He opens a pocket
knife, and makes a long cut across the figure of Brynhild._) There
goes a year's work.
Fitzgerald.
(_rising_) By Jove!
Vane.
My dear fellow, I congratulate you. The year's work is not thrown
away--now. (_Re-enter Mrs. Denham._)
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, Mr. Vane, what have you made him do?
Vane.
My dear Mrs. Denham, I have saved your husband's reputation for a
few months at least. He cannot do anything so _consummately_ bad in
_less_. Pray, pray, do not try to understand art! Women never can;
they have not yet developed the sixth sense--the sense of _Beauty_.
But I must really tear myself away.
(_Mrs. Denham sits gloomily on throne, ignoring Vane._)
Denham.
Won't you stay and have some tea?
Vane.
Thanks, no. Lady Mayfair made me promise to go and hear her new
tenor.
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