The Man.
Yet you are mistaken, little wife. If I were really a genius my creations would have outlived this poor old relic which they call my body: yet I am still alive, whereas my creations——
His Wife.
No, no! They have not perished, nor will they ever. Think of that great mansion at the corner of the street—the one which you designed ten years ago. I know well that you go to look at it every evening when the sun is setting. And, indeed, is there in all the world a more beautiful, a more stately mansion?
The Man.
Yes, of set purpose I built it in such a way that the beams of the setting sun may fall upon it and make its windows flash. When all the rest of the city is in twilight my house is still bidding farewell to the sun. Yes, 'twas a fine piece of work; and perchance—who knows?—it will outlive me a little while.
His Wife.
Of course it will, my darling!
The Man.
One thing, and one thing only, grieves me concerning that masterpiece of mine: and that is that people should so soon have forgotten its designer. They might have remembered him a little longer, just a little longer.