Maud and Alice. Ah!
(Yvonne rises, walks towards the large window at the back, a sky-light really, opens it and leans out during the following.)
Alice. If we can only get it started—we know very little about such work.
Maud. That makes no difference. We all paint and all great art is one in its complete state. We can surely run a magazine. If only Uncle, George’s Uncle Billy, will start it financially!
George. Oh, he will, I’m sure. (Smiles.)
Alice. Whose stuff will we print in it besides our own? If we could only get something from some of the great living ones! But we can’t hope for more than one or two things from them, at most, perhaps nothing, unless we prove a great success.
George. You doubt our success? You lack egotism, my dear. I have already a poem, by one of our greatest living English poets. It’s written in Italian.
Maud. Of course it’s beautiful.
George. Of course, everything of his is.
Alice. Strange that he should send you a poem written in Italian. It’s beautiful, you say—I didn’t know that you read Italian?