began
to paint you.

Mrs. Tremaine.

I am so glad if I have been of any use. Have you ever painted
Constance?

Denham.

I have tried; but she's a fidgety sitter, and always looks like an
incarnation of despair. (_He approaches her._) May I arrange these
folds a little?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Certainly.

Denham.

(_arranging skirt of dress_) That will do. The fan so--head a
_little_ more to the left--so. (_He goes back, and paints in silence
again._) This is coming splendidly. I dare not do much more to the
head.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Can you finish it to-day?

Denham.

As much as I can finish anything. (_Paints again in silence._) I
wish Constance had some of your reposeful quality. I can't think
what ails her. She gets more irritable and pessimistic every day.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Perhaps you irritate her.

Denham.

I? But, good heavens!--(_Stops painting, and looks at her._)

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes, I know. You think you are very patient, while you treat her
with a--what shall I say?--a sort of contemptuous respect.

Denham.

Really? I am sorry if it seems so. I wish I could rouse her out of
the slough of despond.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Perhaps she is disappointed?

Denham.

We are all disappointed. It is the niggardliness of Nature--the old
woman in the shoe. (_Paints again in silence._) Do you believe in
love, Blanche? Still?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_sighing_) Yes, I think I do. There is not very much else left for
one to believe in, nowadays.

Denham.

So do I--as a dream.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Ah! You are the pessimist now.

Denham.

Why make mad efforts to realise it?

Mrs. Tremaine.

A necessity of our nature, I suppose.

Denham.

What does the modern woman desire or expect from a man? You are sick
of marriage, it seems.

Mrs. Tremaine.

As it exists--yes.

Denham.

Well, the instinctive _amourette_ had its poetry--in Arcadia. Keep
your hands quiet a moment.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Let me warm them first. Remember we are in the grip of a London
May.

Denham.

All right--come. (_She comes over to the picture. He stops her._)
No, you must not look yet.

Mrs. Tremaine.

You have become quite a tyrant, do you know?

(_She goes to the fire._)

Denham.

(_taking her hands_) Cold? Yes; I have kept you too long. You have
such good hands! I wish I could paint them.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_kneels at fire, and warms her hands_) One more chance!

Denham.

I shall make the most of it