St. J. None, Tristram; none! Humanity! a dream
Phantasmal as divinity itself.
Sir T. Humanity, divinity—ideals?
Do you believe in nothing, Gervase?
St. J. No.
Belief—— But that can wait.
Sir T. Wait! what can wait?
That is your cry to-day. What, and till when?
Is it a revelation?
St. J. Now you laugh;
And that is sane and good: the bitterest grin
Is hopeful. What I have to say can wait
Until—— Why do you reproduce to-night
This decadent, mordant, hateful travesty?
Sir T. "Troilus and Cressida"? It is my mood:
Man as he is—and woman. Oh, I stalk
A theory here! Heaven help us, and the cat!
I play Ulysses.
[The telephone rings.]
St. J. Shall I go?
Sir T. [At the telephone] No, Gervase!
What are you dubious of? (Yes. Martha! Well?
Groom? Drinking—drunk. How horrible? No. Yes.)
I'm ruined, Gervase! Martha saw and heard
Our fate to-night in that magnetic mood
She will solicit. (Yes. I come at once.)
We conquer if Warwick Groom plays Troilus;
If not our curtain's down, our lights are out,
My last part played.
[Both have reached the door hurriedly and are about to go out.]