_Hilda_. Nothing important, except a letter from Stroud & Fayerweather to say that the question of the royalty on _Pomegranate Seed_ has been settled in your favor. The English publishers of _Immolation_ write to consult you about a six-shilling edition; Olafson, the Copenhagen publisher, applies for permission to bring out a Danish translation of _The Idol’s Feet_; and the editor of the _Semaphore_ wants a new serial--I think that’s all; except that _Woman’s Sphere_ and _The Droplight_ ask for interviews--with photographs-- _Mrs. Dale_. The same old story! I’m so tired of it all. _(To herself, in an undertone.)_ But how should I feel if it all stopped? _(The servant brings in a card.)_ _Mrs. Dale (reading it)_. Is it possible? Paul Ventnor? _(To the servant.)_ Show Mr. Ventnor up. _(To herself.)_ Paul Ventnor! _Hilda (breathless)_. Oh, Mrs. Dale--_the_ Mr. Ventnor? _Mrs. Dale (smiling)_. I fancy there’s only one. _Hilda_. The great, great poet? _(Irresolute.)_ No, I don’t dare-- _Mrs. Dale (with a tinge of impatience)_. What? _Hilda (fervently)_. Ask you--if I might--oh, here in this corner, where he can’t possibly notice me--stay just a moment? Just to see him come in? To see the meeting between you--the greatest novelist and the greatest poet of the age? Oh, it’s too much to ask! It’s an historic moment. _Mrs. Dale_. Why, I suppose it is. I hadn’t thought of it in that light. Well _(smiling)_, for the diary-- _Hilda_. Oh, thank you, _thank you_! I’ll be off the very instant I’ve heard him speak. _Mrs. Dale_. The very instant, mind. _(She rises, looks at herself in the glass, smooths her hair, sits down again, and rattles the tea-caddy.)_ Isn’t the room very warm?--_(She looks over at her portrait.)_ I’ve grown stouter since that was painted--. You’ll make a fortune out of that diary, Hilda-- _Hilda (modestly)_. Four publishers have applied to me already-- _The Servant (announces)_. Mr. Paul Ventnor. _(Tall, nearing fifty, with an incipient stoutness buttoned into a masterly frock-coat, Ventnor drops his glass and advances vaguely, with a short-sighted stare.)_ _Ventnor_. Mrs. Dale? _Mrs. Dale_. My dear friend! This is kind. _(She looks over her shoulder at Hilda, who vanishes through the door to the left.)_ The papers announced your arrival, but I hardly hoped-- _Ventnor (whose short-sighted stare is seen to conceal a deeper embarrassment)_. You hadn’t forgotten me, then? _Mrs. Dale_. Delicious! Do _you_ forget that you’re public property? _Ventnor_. Forgotten, I mean, that we were old friends? _Mrs. Dale_. Such old friends! May I remind you that it’s nearly twenty years since we’ve met? Or do you find cold reminiscences indigestible? _Ventnor_. On the contrary, I’ve come to ask you for a dish of them--we’ll warm them up together. You’re my first visit.