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 wouldn"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 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, didn"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 a.s.sumed wonder_): I say ... I say ...
You old heathen ... but Good Lord ...
[_He b.u.mps 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 wouldn"t understand.
PRATTLE: Wouldn"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 towards_ 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 revealed. 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?