(The curtain rises. For a minute or two the stage is empty. Then enter Vivian, through the door at the back of the stage, the only door in the scene. He wears the dress of the ancient Greeks and is evidently just coming from the bath, as shown by his damp hair. In one hand he carries a few narcissi, while with the other he tries to arrange the folds of drapery, which seem to hinder his movements. He arranges one or two flowers in a jar, before the "Nike de Samothrace," whispering: "Yes, narcissi, truly like Grecian things." He drops the rest of the flowers upon the floor, removes the robe and starts to comb his hair before a small mirror. This mirror is set in the back of a large framed photograph of the "Venus de Milo" that hangs near the door. Vivian turns the Venus photograph to the wall and we see the small piece of looking-glass. He finally rouges his lips as a finishing touch to his toilet. Putting on a coat but retaining the sandals, he moves towards the door; on the way he picks up a hat, which he puts on carefully. As he nears the door a knock is heard and the door is opened. Vivian takes on the look of being in the higher heights of thought. Two girls are discovered in the door-way. One, Yvonne, says: "Bon jour." The second, Alice: "Hello." Both enter. Vivian passes them in the door-way without speaking and softly closes the door.) VIVIAN (outside). I'm going out. (And more softly.) Wait, wait. (The girls remove their hats. Yvonne sinks on the floor, in front of the couch.) YVONNE. Oh, I'm so tired. I painted for two hours yesterday. ALICE (sitting on the couch). How you work--and you would have painted again to-day, if I hadn't stopped for you, no doubt. YVONNE. Well, I was thinking about it. ALICE. Ridiculous! Do you think that Beauty can be contemplated constantly? One either becomes blind or mad--you painted for two hours yesterday--ridiculous! YVONNE. I've seen nothing of yours of late. Don't you work; don't you paint, I mean? ALICE. I'm waiting, waiting. For days, months really, I have felt as though--how shall I put it--as though the scales were about to fall from my eyes; at moments like these, as you know, when I really see the thing, I paint. Between times, I wait, I wait. YVONNE. Couldn't you work and wait, too? ALICE. No, I must save all my energy for these supreme moments, when I see Beauty in its essence. YVONNE. Then you really work less than I thought. ALICE (in an awed voice). Yvonne, how can you! I work constantly. The air is my canvas, my nerves are the brushes. I work? God, how I do work! To contemplate, to wait, to dream, is not this work? YVONNE. I suppose so--but-- ALICE. Oh, I know--you all think, except George, that I do nothing. Well, rather that, if it were true, than what one generally sees on canvas, every year, at the Academies. YVONNE. You think then that it is better not to paint at all and wait as you say--than to do an inferior thing? ALICE. Undoubtedly.