de Reves (solemnly and mournfully): One moment, one moment ...
Fame: Well, out with it.
de Reves: For ten years, divine lady, I have worshipped you, offering all my songs ... I find ... I find I am not worthy....
Fame: Oh, you're all right.
de Reves: No, no, I am not worthy. It cannot be. It cannot possibly be. Others deserve you more. I must say it! I cannot possibly love you. Others are worthy. You will find others. But I, no, no, no. It cannot be. It cannot be. Oh, pardon me, but it must not.
[Meanwhile Fame has been lighting one of his cigarettes. She sits in a comfortable chair, leans right back, and puts her feet right up on the table amongst the poet's papers.
Oh, I fear I offend you. But—it cannot be.
Fame: Oh, that's all right, old bird; no offence. I ain't going to leave you.
de Reves: But—but—but—I do not understand.
Fame: I've come to stay, I have.