Your own?

Denham.

Mine--and yours. Read it aloud.

Mrs. Tremaine.

I did not know you were a poet.

Denham.

Every man is a poet once in his life. You have made me one. (_He
sits at her feet on the "throne."_)

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_Reads_):

TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

(_Looks down at him and smiles._)

Some women are Love's toys, kiss'd and flung by,
Some his pale martyrs: thou art womanhood,
Superbly symbol'd in rare flesh and blood.
Eternal Beauty, she for whom we sigh,
Dowers thee with her own eternity;
Thou art Love's sibyl: in proud solitude
O'er his old mysteries thy deep eyes brood,
And at thy feet his rich dominions lie.
Hast thou a heart? Let me desire it still.
Torture my heart to life with thy disdain;
Yet smile, give me immortal dreams, still be
My Muse, my inspiration, vision, will!
I ask no pity, I demand but pain:
And if I love thee, what is that to thee?

It sounds very well; but I'm afraid I don't quite understand it.

Denham.

That is the highest praise you could give it; if it be
unintelligible it _must_ be fine. It means "_mes hommages_!"
(_Kisses her hand._) And now come down! (_He hands her down from the
"throne"._)

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_with a shy laugh, crosses_ R) But you don't mean to say
that you have said all those fine words about me?

Denham.

Yes--_to_ you, Blanche. I love you. What is that to you? (_Comes
down to fire._)

Mrs. Tremaine.

It is very flattering, no doubt, to be made love to in pretty
verses. (_With a mocking smile._) Is this your "situation" at last?

Denham.

Yes, it is a situation.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_sharply_) Oh, I see! I am to be a sort of lay figure for your
poetry, as well as your painting; the Laura of this new Petrarch.
Thank you! (_She bows with a little laugh._)

Denham.

I love you, Blanche, I love you!

Mrs. Tremaine.

Say it in verse as much as you like. It does not sound nice in
prose. Don't let us make fools of ourselves, Mr. Denham.

Denham.

We can't avoid it, Mrs. Tremaine. To do it with dignity is all that
can be expected of us.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(_with increased vexation_) That's impossible. (_Crosses_ R, _and
takes cloak._) Don't let us spoil a pleasant friendship with nonsense
of this kind. Let me keep that--and your sonnet--and good-bye!

(_She comes down to_ L C. _Denham takes her cloak and puts
it on her, keeping his hands on