Ventnor. Real people?
Mrs. Dale. Are you, now? I died years ago. What you see before you is a figment of the reporter’s brain—a monster manufactured out of newspaper paragraphs, with ink in its veins. A keen sense of copyright is my nearest approach to an emotion.
Ventnor (sighing). Ah, well, yes—as you say, we’re public property.
Mrs. Dale. If one shared equally with the public! But the last shred of my identity is gone.
Ventnor. Most people would be glad to part with theirs on such terms. I have followed your work with immense interest. Immolation is a masterpiece. I read it last summer when it first came out.
Mrs. Dale (with a shade less warmth). Immolation has been out three years.
Ventnor. Oh, by Jove—no? Surely not—But one is so overwhelmed—one loses count. (Reproachfully.) Why have you never sent me your books?
Mrs. Dale. For that very reason.
Ventnor (deprecatingly). You know I didn’t mean it for you! And my first book—do you remember—was dedicated to you.
Mrs. Dale. Silver Trumpets—