_Mrs. Dale_. How perfect of you! So few men visit their women friends in chronological order; or at least they generally do it the other way round, beginning with the present day and working back--if there’s time--to prehistoric woman. _Ventnor_. But when prehistoric woman has become historic woman--? _Mrs. Dale_. Oh, it’s the reflection of my glory that has guided you here, then? _Ventnor_. It’s a spirit in my feet that has led me, at the first opportunity, to the most delightful spot I know. _Mrs. Dale_. Oh, the first opportunity--! _Ventnor_. I might have seen you very often before; but never just in the right way. _Mrs. Dale_. Is this the right way? _Ventnor_. It depends on you to make it so. _Mrs. Dale_. What a responsibility! What shall I do? _Ventnor_. Talk to me--make me think you’re a little glad to see me; give me some tea and a cigarette; and say you’re out to everyone else. _Mrs. Dale_. Is that all? _(She hands him a cup of tea.)_ The cigarettes are at your elbow--. And do you think I shouldn’t have been glad to see you before? _Ventnor_. No; I think I should have been too glad to see you. _Mrs. Dale_. Dear me, what precautions! I hope you always wear goloshes when it looks like rain and never by any chance expose yourself to a draught. But I had an idea that poets courted the emotions-- _Ventnor_. Do novelists? _Mrs. Dale_. If you ask _me_--on paper! _Ventnor_. Just so; that’s safest. My best things about the sea have been written on shore. _(He looks at her thoughtfully.)_ But it wouldn’t have suited us in the old days, would it? _Mrs. Dale (sighing)_. When we were real people! _Ventnor_. Real people? _Mrs. Dale_. Are _you_, now? I died years ago. What you see before you is a figment of the reporter’s brain--a monster manufactured out of newspaper paragraphs, with ink in its veins. A keen sense of copyright is _my_ nearest approach to an emotion. _Ventnor (sighing)_. Ah, well, yes--as you say, we’re public property. _Mrs. Dale_. If one shared equally with the public! But the last shred of my identity is gone. _Ventnor_. Most people would be glad to part with theirs on such terms. I have followed your work with immense interest. _Immolation_ is a masterpiece. I read it last summer when it first came out. _Mrs. Dale (with a shade less warmth)_. _Immolation_ has been out three years. _Ventnor_. Oh, by Jove--no? Surely not--But one is so overwhelmed--one loses count. (_Reproachfully_.) Why have you never sent me your books? _Mrs. Dale_. For that very reason. _Ventnor (deprecatingly)_. You know I didn’t mean it for you! And _my_ first book--do you remember--was dedicated to you. _Mrs. Dale_. _Silver Trumpets_-- _Ventnor (much interested)_. Have you a copy still, by any chance? The first edition, I mean? Mine was stolen years ago. Do you think you could put your hand on it? _Mrs. Dale (taking a small shabby book from the table at her side)_. It’s here.