Mrs. Denham.

You seem to like every one awfully.

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?