DE REVES. Oh, this is terrible. This is terrible. This is terrible.
(FAME gives another peal on her horn. She is about to speak.)
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.