t of
politeness, if you are never more brutally rude than you have been.
I suppose I am to take it as the rudeness of a man of genius?

Denham.

No--like all unsuccessful people who worry themselves over art--I am
only a man of _some_ genius--a very different thing, I assure you.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Are _you_ unsuccessful?

Denham.

A man who paints pictures that please only his wife is surely
unsuccessful? But I don't want to bore you with myself. It only
means that I feel we are friends already.

Mrs. Tremaine.

You don't know how pleasant it is to be with people who don't look
upon me as a dreadfully wicked woman.

Denham.

No doubt, like all persons of distinction, you belong to the
criminal classes; but we are all emancipated here.

(_Re-enter Mrs. Denham and Miss Macfarlane, who goes straight to the
fire as she speaks._)

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, Arthur, that precious black cat of yours!

Miss Macfarlane.

We've settled the curtains, now for the cat.

Denham.

What has he been doing now?

Mrs. Denham.

In the larder again. Really that beast must be got rid of. I will
not stand such abominations any longer.

Denham.

Well, don't ask me to be executioner, that's all.

Mrs. Tremaine.

But surely you're not going to kill a black cat? It is awfully
unlucky.

(_Miss Macfarlane keeps Mrs. Tremaine under observation._)

Denham.

Are you superstitious?

Mrs. Tremaine.

I suppose I am. Those peacock feathers made me shiver when I came
in.

Mrs. Denham.

Are peacock's feathers unlucky?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes; didn't you know that?

Mrs. Denham.

No.

Denham.

Constance is not superstitious. It is her worst fault. A little
superstition gives colour to life.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Do let _me_ take the cat, Constance!

Mrs. Denham.

I am sure you are welcome to the beast.

Denham.

Thanks, Mrs. Tremaine.

Mrs. Denham.

Arthur, take Mrs. Tremaine down to have some tea.

Denham.

Will you come, Mrs. Tremaine?

(_Exeunt Denham and Mrs. Tremaine._)

Miss Macfarlane.

(_retaining Mrs. Denham_) My dear, beware of that woman! (_Crosses
to Mrs. Denham._)

Mrs. Denham.

Of Blanche--why?

Miss Macfarlane.

Ye have a husband, that's all.

Mrs. Denham.

But you don't suppose--

Miss Macfarlane.

Eh, I suppose nothing. But that woman loves men. I can see it with
half an eye.

Mrs. Denham.

If my husband does not love me, let him leave me. (_Crosses
C._)

Miss Ma