I suppose I am to take it as the rudeness of a man of genius?
Denham.
No--like all unsuccessful people who worry themselves over art--I am
only a man of _some_ genius--a very different thing, I assure you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Are _you_ unsuccessful?
Denham.
A man who paints pictures that please only his wife is surely
unsuccessful? But I don't want to bore you with myself. It only
means that I feel we are friends already.
Mrs. Tremaine.
You don't know how pleasant it is to be with people who don't look
upon me as a dreadfully wicked woman.
Denham.
No doubt, like all persons of distinction, you belong to the
criminal classes; but we are all emancipated here.
(_Re-enter Mrs. Denham and Miss Macfarlane, who goes straight to the
fire as she speaks._)
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, Arthur, that precious black cat of yours!
Miss Macfarlane.
We've settled the curtains, now for the cat.
Denham.
What has he been doing now?
Mrs. Denham.
In the larder again. Really that beast must be got rid of. I will
not stand such abominations any longer.
Denham.
Well, don't ask me to be executioner, that's all.
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