Fitzgerald.

This Gyp's _awfully_ good. Who is he, eh?

Vane.

(_with patient scorn_) A woman!

Fitzgerald.

(_with conviction_) To be sure! That makes it--splendid! (_Chuckles
to himself, sits again on sofa, and goes on reading._)

Vane.

(_looking at picture_) Will you never learn to be an _artist_,
Denham? The modern picture should be a painted quatrain, with
colours for words--words which say nothing, because everything has
been said, but which _suggest_ all that has been felt and dreamed.
Art is the initiation into a mood, a mystery--a sphinx whose riddle
every one can answer, yet no one understand.

Fitzgerald.

(_shutting the book on his finger_) Bravo, Vane! 'Pon my word, I
begin to believe in you.

Vane.

I can endure even that.