se 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?

Fitzgerald.

For Heaven's sake introduce me to him.

(_Enter Jane, showing in Vane._)

Jane.

Mr. Vane!

(_Exit Jane._)

(_Vane shakes hands languidly with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and
stares at Fitzgerald, who smiles genially._)

Denham.

Ah, Vane, glad to see you.

Vane.

How d'ye do? Ah, Mrs. Denham, that tea-gown is charming.

Mrs. Denham.

Flattery from you, Mr. Vane, is more than flattery. Pray excuse me
for a moment.

(_Exit Mrs. Denham._)

Denham.

Fitzgerald, you know Vane, of course?

Fitzgerald.

Upon my word I scarcely know. _Do_ we know each other, Vane?

Vane.

My dear Fitzgerald, when will you learn that you can never know me?
(_Crosses to picture._)

Fitzgerald.

Then, my dear Vane, I must learn to be resigned. (_Fitzgerald turns
away, and takes up Gyp. Vane looks at the picture._) What's this?
"Autour du Marriage," eh? (_Opens book, and reads, then lies on
sofa, still reading._)

Vane.

Ah, the Brynhild! My dear Denham, why _will_ you do such things?

Denham.

What have I done?

Vane.

Not what you have tried to do--to paint an epic picture.

Denham.

Is that wrong?

Vane.

Worse than wrong; it is a _betise_. (_Comes to fire, and stands with
his back to it._) You might as well try to write a long poem. Such
things are certainly _long_, and as certainly not _poems_. That huge
thing is not a picture.

Denham.

Ah, you write quatrains. Should no poem exceed four lines?

Vane.

Not only should not, but in our present state of development,
_cannot_. The quatrain is the analogue of the Greek gem, the
_consummate_ flower of the national art of the period. It will take
at _least_ a century to perfect and exhaust it. Have you seen my
book, "Three Quatrains"?

Denham.

No; have you published it lately?

Vane.

My dear Denham! I never _publish_ anything. In a wilderness of
mediocrity obscurity is fame.

Denham.

Yes, a well-advertised obscurity. But surely you _have_ published
poems?

Vane.

Where have you lived, my dear fellow? I breathe a poem into the air,
and the world hears. If some one prints it, can I help it? One does
not print, wake, and become famous; one becomes famous, and the