Fitzgerald.

(_rising_) By Jove!

Vane.

My dear fellow, I congratulate you. The year's work is not thrown
away--now. (_Re-enter Mrs. Denham._)

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, Mr. Vane, what have you made him do?

Vane.

My dear Mrs. Denham, I have saved your husband's reputation for a
few months at least. He cannot do anything so _consummately_ bad in
_less_. Pray, pray, do not try to understand art! Women never can;
they have not yet developed the sixth sense--the sense of _Beauty_.
But I must really tear myself away.

(_Mrs. Denham sits gloomily on throne, ignoring Vane._)

Denham.

Won't you stay and have some tea?

Vane.