of your winged horses even. They gave me some stuff called
bromide for it. You take a rest.

DE REVES. But my dear fellow, you don't understand at all. I
merely said that abstract things are to a poet as near and real
and visible as one of your bookmakers or barmaids.

PRATTLE. I know. You take a rest.

DE REVES. Well, perhaps I will. I'd come with you to that musical
comedy you're going to see, only I'm a bit tired after writing
this; it's a tedious job. I'll come another night.

PRATTLE. How do you know I'm going to see a musical comedy?

DE REVES. Well, where would you go? _Hamlet's_ on at the
Lord Chamberlain's. You're not going there.

PBATTLE. Do I look like it?

DE REVES. No.

PRATTLE. Well, you're quite right. I'm going to see "The Girl
from Bedlam." So long. I must push off now. It's getting late.
You take a rest. Don't add another line to that sonnet;
fourteen's quite enough. You take a rest. Don't have any dinner
to-night, just rest. I was like that once myself. So long.

DE REVES. So long.

(_Exit_ PRATTLE. DE REVES _returns to his table and sits down._)

Good old Dick. He's the same as ever. Lord, how time passes.

(_He takes his pen and his sonnet and makes a few alterations._)

Well, that's finished. I can't do any more to it.

(_He rises and goes to the screen; he draws back part of it and
goes up to the altar. He is about to place his sonnet reverently
at the foot of the altar amongst his other verses._)

No, I will not put it there. This one is worthy of the altar.

(_He places the sonnet upon the altar itself._)

If that sonnet does not give me Fame, nothing that I have done
before will give it to me, nothing that I ever will do.

(_He replaces the screen and returns to his chair at the table.
Twilight is coming on. He sits with his elbow on the table, his
head on his hand, or however the actor pleases._)

Well, well. Fancy seeing Dick again. Well, Dick enjoys his life,
so he's no fool. What was that he said? "There's no money in
poetry. You'd better chuck it." Ten years' work and what have I
to show for it? The admiration of men who care for poetry, and
how many of _them_ are there? There's a bigger demand for
smoked glasses to look at eclipses of the sun. Why should Fame
come to me? Haven't I given up my days for her? That is enough to
keep her away. I am a poet; that is enough reason for her to
slight me. Proud and aloof and cold as marble, what does Fame
care for us? Yes,