world awakes, cackles, and prints one.

Fitzgerald.

By-the-bye, Vane, there's a quatrain in your "In the House of
Hathor" I wanted to ask you about.

Vane.

Which?

Fitzgerald.

Let me see--it begins:

"I saw a serpent in my Lady's heart,"--

Vane.

Ah! spare me the torment of hearing--

Fitzgerald.

Your own lines?

Vane.

_Mur_-dered!

"I saw the serpent of my Lady's heart,
Lovely and leprous; and a violet sigh
Shook the wan, yellowing leaves of threnody,
Bruised in the holy chalice of my Art."

Fitzgerald.

Ah yes! I didn't quite catch the meaning.

Vane.

Meaning? It is a piece of _mu_-sic, in which I have skilfully
e-_lu_-ded ALL _meaning_.

Fitzgerald.

Oh, I see! (_Resumes his book._)

Denham.

(_to Vane_) Have a cigarette? (_Denham offers him a cigarette; he
takes one absently, then lets it drop back into the box._)

Vane.

Thanks, no--I never smoke. It has become so vulgar.

Denham.

Really? What do you do then--_absinthe_?

Vane.

For the purposes of art it is antiquated. (_He sighs._) I have tried
_haschish_.

Denham.

Well?

Vane.

Without distinct results--for one's style, that is.

Denham.

Oh!

Vane.

One sometimes sees oneself inventing the Narghile. It involves the
black slave, of course, and might lead to a true retrogressive
progress--even to the _Harim_. One pities the superfluous woman,
there are so many about.

Denham.

Yet Mormonism seems to be a failure.

Vane.

It was so _dreadfully_ upholstered!

Denham.

The _Harim_ would be a new field for the collector. How prices would
run up!

Vane.

Ah, Denham, never touch a dream with the vulgarity of real things!
(_Crosses to picture._)

(_Fitzgerald, who has been reading Gyp, suddenly comes forward with
the book in his hand, and breaks in._)

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.