truth, as you are never tired of demonstrating to me. Do you
think the unfortunate cross has not had his share of the torment?

Mrs. Denham.

Too light a share for his tyranny, cruelty, and, above all, his
_mean_ hypocrisy. May he burn in some spiritual fire for that!

Denham.

So he does; it runs in his veins. Well, something better may come of
it, some day. By-the-bye, I expect some men to see my picture.

Mrs. Denham.

Brynhild?

Denham.

Yes, such as she is. (_Crosses_ R, _and looks at the
picture._) Another failure, of course. (_Sighs._)

Mrs. Denham.

Why will you always speak of your work so despondently?

Denham.

Because I want to do better. Vanity, I suppose. (_He comes back
towards the fireplace._)

Mrs. Denham.

Just move out this sofa. (_They move sofa to_ C.) Who are
coming?

Denham.

Oh, Fitzgerald, of course, and possibly Cyril Vane.

Mrs. Denham. That little creature? You know I detest him.

Denham.

Why _little_? Do you estimate men of genius by the pound?

Mrs. Denham.

Men of genius, indeed? The man has a second-hand intellect.

Denham.

Really, you sometimes say a good thing--that is, an ill-natured one.
How you hate culture! (_Enter Jane, showing in Fitzgerald._)

Jane.

Mr. Fitzgerald! (_Exit Jane._)

(_Fitzgerald saunters up to Mrs. Denham, stops suddenly, straddling
his legs, and shakes hands loosely and absently._)

Fitzgerald.

Lovely day, eh? Have you heard the news?

Denham.

We never have heard the news.

Mrs. Denham.

You are the only gossip who comes our way.

Fitzgerald.

(_good-humouredly_) Gossip, eh? Oh, you needn't think I mind being
denounced from your domestic altar, Mrs. Denham! I know you're dying
to hear the last bit of scandal.

Mrs. Denham.

Take pity on me then.

Fitzgerald.

I know this'll interest you awfully. Pottleton Smith's wife's run
away at last. Now wasn't I right? (_Looks smilingly at both for
sympathy._) I always said she would, you know.

Mrs. Denham.

Poor silly little flirt! I'm very sorry.

Fitzgerald.

(_rubbing his hands_) I'm--I'm awfully glad. It'll be the saving of
poor Smith. Though he's awfully cut up about it, of course.

Denham.

Did she run away with--any one in particular?

Fitzgerald.

A Captain Crosby or Cosby, or something. He's in some horse
regiment, the cavalry or something. He's--he's an awful scamp, a
blackleg and all that, but an awfully nice fellow. I met him at
Smith's