George. I don’t—Palidino read it to me. I asked him what it meant, what it was about. He said that he did not understand its meaning—but the sound of it, as he was reading it, was magnificent. It is a masterpiece! Its meaning is clear to me—Palidino understands nothing which is really fine. The poem tells by its sound that the poet writes of love, the love which is perfected by death.
Maud (to herself). “The Triumph of Death.”
Alice (softly). George, you are wonderful; it is fine to feel as finely as you do—I mean it, really I do, George.
George. You are beautiful. (Pause.)
Maud. Still, it seems that we ought to have more people to write for us. I can think of only a few, one or two, who do good stuff, really fine things—impressions.
George. Oh, that will be all right. We have enough material for our first number. The demand will create the material. We will get plenty of stuff sent in from unknowns, I think, for our future numbers.
Maud. If not, we can all write things for it. I know that we all do write on the quiet while posing as painters! Don’t you write, Yvonne?
Yvonne (from window). No, I only paint.
Maud (with a sneer). But—oh, well—you do read Kipling and Whitman; that’s the reason you don’t write, I suppose.
(No answer from Yvonne.)