its broadcloth and its silk. And
yet"--[He stops, with a dried-up air-rather impatiently] Go on, my
dear! It helps the atmosphere.

[The voice of his WIFE begins again, gets as far as "made them
sing" and stops dead, just as the PROFESSOR's pen is beginning
to scratch. And suddenly, drawing the curtain further aside]

[SHE appears. Much younger than the PROFESSOR, pale, very
pretty, of a Botticellian type in face, figure, and in her
clinging cream-coloured frock. She gazes at her abstracted
husband; then swiftly moves to the lintel of the open window,
and stands looking out.]

THE WIFE. God! What beauty!

PROF. [Looking Up] Umm?

THE WIFE. I said: God! What beauty!

PROF. Aha!

THE WIFE. [Looking at him] Do you know that I have to repeat
everything to you nowadays?

PROF. What?

THE WIFE. That I have to repeat----

PROF. Yes; I heard. I'm sorry. I get absorbed.

THE WIFE. In all but me.

PROF. [Startled] My dear, your song was helping me like anything to
get the mood. This paper is the very deuce--to balance between the
historical and the natural.

THE WIFE. Who wants the natural?

PROF. [Grumbling] Umm! Wish I thought that! Modern taste!
History may go hang; they're all for tuppence-coloured sentiment
nowadays.

THE WIFE. [As if to herself] Is the Spring sentiment?

PROF. I beg your pardon, my dear; I didn't catch.

WIFE. [As if against her will--urged by some pent-up force] Beauty,
beauty!

PROF. That's what I'm, trying to say here. The Orpheus legend
symbolizes to this day the call of Beauty! [He takes up his pen,
while she continues to stare out at the moonlight. Yawning] Dash
it! I get so sleepy; I wish you'd tell them to make the after-dinner
coffee twice as strong.

WIFE. I will.

PROF. How does this strike you? [Conning] "Many Renaissance
pictures, especially those of Botticelli, Francesca and Piero di
Cosimo were inspired by such legends as that of Orpheus, and we owe a
tiny gem--like Raphael 'Apollo and Marsyas' to the same Pagan
inspiration."

WIFE. We owe it more than that--rebellion against the dry-as-dust.

PROF. Quite. I might develop that: "We owe it our revolt against
the academic; or our disgust at 'big business,' and all the grossness
of commercial success. We owe----". [His voice peters out.]

WIFE. It--love.

PROF. [Abstracted] Eh!

WIFE. I said: We owe it love.

PROF.