Fitzgerald.

(_shutting the book on his finger_) Bravo, Vane! 'Pon my word, I
begin to believe in you.

Vane.

I can endure even that.

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.

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.

Thanks, no. Lady Mayfair made me promise to go and hear her new
tenor. One knows what one has to expect, but one goes.

(_Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane._)

Jane.

Miss Macfarlane!

(_Miss Macfarlane shakes hands with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and nods
to Fitzgerald and Vane._)

Miss Macfarlane.

How d'ye do, Fitz? Ah, Vane! you here? Don't run away.

Vane.

Unfortunately I must. The wounds of our last encounter are not yet
healed.

Miss Macfarlane.

Pshaw, man! _I_ don't use poisoned weapons.

Vane.

Ah, Miss Macfarlane, the broadsword is very effective in your hands!
(_Going._)

Fitzgerald.

Oh, Vane, will you dine with me at the Bohemians on Friday? I want
you to hear--

Vane.

The Bohemians? Impossible!

Fitzgerald.

You'll see life, at any rate.

Vane.

My dear fellow, I _have