DE REVES. Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what an earthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus-- PRATTLE. What's Pegasus? DE REVES. Oh, the winged horse of poets. PRATTLE. I say! You don't believe in a winged horse, do you? DE REVES. In our trade we believe in all fabulous things. They all represent some large truth to turn us. An emblem like Pegasus is as real a thing to a poet as a Derby winner would be to you. PRATTLE. I say. (_Give me a cigarette. Thanks._) What? Then you'd believe in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all those kind of birds? DE REVES. Yes. Yes. In all of them. PRATTLE. Good Lord! DE REVES. You believe in the Lord Mayor of London, don't you? PRATTLE. Yes, of course; but what has-- DE REVES. Four million people or so made him Lord Mayor, didn't they? And he represents to them the wealth and dignity and tradition of-- PRATTLE. Yes; but, I say, what has all this-- DE REVES. Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made him Lord Mayor, and so he is one.... PRATTLE. Well, of course he is. DE REVES. In the same way Pan has been made what he is by millions; by millions to whom he represents world-old traditions. PRATTLE. (_rising from his chair and stepping backwards, laughing and looking at the POET in a kind of assumed wonder_). I say.... I say.... You old heathen ... but Good Lord.... (_He bumps into the high screen behind, pushing it back a little._) DE REVES. Look out! Look out! PRATTLE. What? What's the matter? DE REVES. The screen! PRATTLE. Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right. (_He is about to go round behind it._) DE REVES. No, don't go round there. PRATTLE. What? Why not? DE REVES. Oh, you wouldn't understand. PRATTLE. Wouldn't understand? Why, what have you got? DE REVES. Oh, one of those things.... You wouldn't understand. PRATTLE. Of course I'd understand. Let's have a look. (_The_ POET _walks toward_ PRATTLE _and the screen. He protests no further._ PRATTLE _looks round the corner of the screen._) An altar. DE REVES. (_removing the screen altogether_). That is all. What do you make of it? (_An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is revealed. Papers litter the floor all about it._) PRATTLE. I say--you always were an untidy devil. DE REVES. Well, what do you make of it? PRATTLE. It reminds me of your room at Eton. DE REVES. My room at Eton? PRATTLE. Yes, you always had papers all over your floor. DE REVES. Oh, yes-- PRATTLE. And what are these? DE REVES. All these are poems; and this is my altar to Fame. PRATTLE. To Fame? DE REVES. The same that Homer knew. PRATTLE. Good Lord! DE REVES. Keats never saw her. Shelley died too young. She came late at the best of times, now scarcely ever. PRATTLE. But, my dear fellow, you don't mean that you think there really is such a person? DE REVES. I offer all my songs to her. PRATTLE. But you don't mean you think you could actually _see_ Fame?