Yes--_to_ you, Blanche. I love you. What is that to you? (_Comes
down to fire._)
Mrs. Tremaine.
It is very flattering, no doubt, to be made love to in pretty
verses. (_With a mocking smile._) Is this your "situation" at last?
Denham.
Yes, it is a situation.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_sharply_) Oh, I see! I am to be a sort of lay figure for your
poetry, as well as your painting; the Laura of this new Petrarch.
Thank you! (_She bows with a little laugh._)
Denham.
I love you, Blanche, I love you!
Mrs. Tremaine.
Say it in verse as much as you like. It does not sound nice in
prose. Don't let us make fools of ourselves, Mr. Denham.
Denham.
We can't avoid it, Mrs. Tremaine. To do it with dignity is all that
can be expected of us.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(_with increased vexation_) That's impossible. (_Crosses_ R, _and
takes cloak._) Don't let us spoil a pleasant friendship with nonsense
of this kind. Let me keep that--and your sonnet--and good-bye!
(_She comes down to_ L C. _Denham takes her cloak and puts
it on her, keeping his hands on her shoulders._)
Denham.
As you please. Call it friendship, or anything you like.
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