[_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.
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