Denham.

I am on the wrong tack then?

Vane.

My dear fellow, look at that canvas. What a method! You are like an
amateur pianist who tries laboriously to obtain tone, without having
mastered the keyboard. One cannot _blunder_ into great art. Only
Englishmen make the attempt. You are a nation of amateurs. (_He
turns away, and sees a sketch on the_ L _wall_) Did you do
this?

Denham.

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.