decent ties to wear,

you can get nothing out there,

--

then I thought I'd have a look and see how London was

getting on.

DE REVES. Splendid! How's everybody?

PRATTLE. All going strong.

DE REVES. That's good.

PRATTLE (seeing paper and ink). But what are you doing? DE REVES. Writing.

PRATTLE. Writing? I did n't know you wrote.

DE REVES. Yes, I've taken to it rather.

PRATTLE. I say-writing's no good. What do you write?

DE REVES. Oh, poetry.

PRATTLE. Poetry? Good Lord!

DE REVES. Yes, that sort of thing, you know.
PRATTLE. Good Lord! Do you make any money by it?
DE REVES. No. Hardly any.

PRATTLE. I say - why don't you chuck it?

DE REVES. Oh, I don't know. Some people seem to like my stuff, rather. That's why I go on.

PRATTLE. I'd chuck it if there's no money in it.

DE REVES. Ah, but then it's hardly in your line, is it? You'd hardly approve of poetry if there was money in it.

PRATTLE. Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetry as I can by betting I don't say I would n't try the poetry touch, only

DE REVES. Only what?

PRATTLE. Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more sense in betting, somehow.

DE REVES. Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what an earthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus — PRATTLE. What's Pegasus?

DE REVES. Oh, the winged horse of poets.

PRATTLE. I say! You don't believe in a winged horse, do you?

DE REVES. In our trade we believe in all fabulous things. They all represent some large truth to turn us. An emblem like Pegasus is as real a thing to a poet as a Derby winner would be to you.

PRATTLE. I say. (Give me a cigarette. Thanks.) What? Then you'd believe in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all those kind of birds?

DE REVES. Yes. Yes. In all of them.

PRATTLE. Good Lord!

DE REVES. You believe in the Lord Mayor of London, don't you?

PRATTLE. Yes, of course; but what has

DE REVES. Four million people or so made him Lord Mayor, did n't they? And he represents to them the wealth and dignity and tradition of

PRATTLE. Yes; but, I say, what has all this—

DE REVES. Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made him Lord Mayor, and so he is one.

PRATTLE. Well, of course he is.

DE REVES. In the same way Pan has been made what he is by millions; by millions to whom he represents world-old traditions.

PRATTLE (rising from his chair and stepping backwards, laughing and looking at the POET in a kind of assumed won

der). I say

Good Lord...

I say

but

(He bumps into the high screen behind, pushing it back a

little.)

DE REVES. Look out! Look out!

PRATTLE. What? What's the matter?

DE REVES. The screen!

PRATTLE. Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right.

(He is about to go round behind it.)

DE REVES. No, don't go round there.

PRATTLE. What? Why not?

DE REVES. Oh, you would n't understand.

PRATTLE. Would n't understand? Why, what have you got?

DE REVES. Oh, one of those things. . . You wouldn't understand.

PRATTLE. Of course I'd understand. Let's have a look. (The POET walks toward PRATTLE and the screen. He protests no further. PRATTLE looks round the corner of the screen.) An altar.

DE REVES (removing the screen altogether). That is all. What do you make of it?

(An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is re-
vealed. Papers litter the floor all about it.)

PRATTLE. I say you always were an untidy devil.
DE REVES. Well, what do you make of it?

PRATTLE. It reminds me of your room at Eton.
DE REVES. My room at Eton?

PRATTLE. Yes, you always had papers all over your floor.

DE REVES. Oh, yes

PRATTLE. And what are these?

DE REVES. All these are poems; and this is my altar to Fame.

PRATTLE. To Fame?

DE REVES. The same that Homer knew.

PRATTLE. Good Lord!

DE REVES. Keats never saw her. Shelley died too young. She came late at the best of times, now scarcely ever. PRATTLE. But, my dear fellow, you don't mean that you think there really is such a person?

DE REVES. I offer all my songs to her. PRATTLE. But you don't mean you think ally see Fame?

you could actu

DE REVES. We poets personify abstract things, and not poets only but sculptors and painters too. All the great things of the world are those abstract things.

PRATTLE. But what I mean is they're not really there, like you or me.

DE REVES. To us these things are more real than men, they outlive generations, they watch the passing of Kingdoms: we go by them like dust; they are still here, unmoved, unsmiling.

PRATTLE. But, but, you can't think that you could see Fame, you don't expect to see it.

DE REVES. Not to me. Never to me. She of the golden trumpet and Greek dress will never appear to me. We all have our dreams.

PRATTLE. I say - what have you been doing all day? DE REVES. I? Oh, only writing a sonnet.

PRATTLE. Is it a long one?

DE REVES. Not very.

PRATTLE. About how long is it?

DE REVES. About fourteen lines.

PRATTLE (impressively). I tell you what it is.

DE REVES. Yes?

PRATTLE. I tell you what. You've been overworking yourself. I once got like that on board the Sandhurst, working for the passing-out exam. I got so bad that I could have seen anything.

DE REVES. Seen anything?

PRATTLE. Lord, yes: horned pigs, snakes with wings, anything, one 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.

PRATTLE. 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