This is my sonnet. Is it well done?

(FAME takes it, reads it in silence, while the POET watches her rapturously.)

FAME. You're a bit of all right.

DE REVES. What?

FAME. Some poet.

DE REVES. I—I—scarcely … understand.

FAME. You're IT.

DE REVES. But … it is not possible … are you she that knew Homer?

FAME. Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e couldn't see a yard.

DE REVES. O Heavens!