.. I say ...
You old heathen ... but Good Lord ...
[_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 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?
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.
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