You read that in a book. You won’t be sure you know her when the fashions in women’s clothes change. You’re mad with the madness of a man who has never lived with women before. AGNUS I thank Heaven—in that way—I’m worthy of her! ONFROY Oh, you fish! You eel! Worthy of her? She isn’t worthy to carry your coat! You’re Addington Agnus, the man who won the Nobel prize—try to remember the name—_Addington Agnus_. AGNUS You’ve never loved, Noel— ONFROY A dozen times. And if Olive made me dissatisfied tomorrow, I might love a dozen times more before I got satisfied again. Marriage made me. It’ll ruin you. Before I married, I was a pot-boiling portrait-painter. Now I’m the great Noel Onfroy, the American Velasquez. Love should serve genius. It’s more important for me to paint good pictures than to be foolish for six months or a year with some woman who doesn’t know a Michael Angelo from a Christy chromo—or who thinks Gibson is a great artist. Now, Fanny doesn’t know the difference between your work and that of some tame rabbit in a hutch discovering cheaper ways of tanning leather and dyeing cheese-cloth— AGNUS Olive didn’t know anything about art when you met her. ONFROY No, but I soon made her learn. I told her if she didn’t I wouldn’t marry her. And I didn’t, either, until she spent a year in one of the Julian studios learning how little she was and how big art was.—You ought to send Fanny to a School of Science before you marry her— AGNUS (_miserably_) She’d laugh at me if I _suggested_ it. ONFROY (_angrily_) Vain, sickening puss-in-boots! AGNUS (_angrily_) Noel, you’re talking of the woman I love— [_Outside a figure is seen at that moment darting through the bushes, trying to hide, and finally crouching down._ ONFROY Of the minx you love; the caterwauling, manicured, massaged, Paris-gowned cocodette you love— AGNUS (_furious_) Cocodette? ONFROY A cocotte who keeps chemically pure because she knows she’ll fetch a higher price in the marriage market—a married kept-up lady— [_Agnus jumps up as if to strike him._ ONFROY (_sombrely_) Don’t do it. I could break you in two. AGNUS (_low_) That finishes us—our friendship— ONFROY (_with real feeling_) I’m sorry—I spoke for your good: to bring you to your senses, Chub— [_Agnus turns away._ ONFROY All right.—Only—you won’t accept that offer, will you? AGNUS I intend to marry the woman I love. The woman whose shoestrings you aren’t fit to— ONFROY Quoting Chambers—McCutcheon novels again—novels written for fudge-munching slatternly wives to read on their way to an equally trashy matinée—their house-work undone—Fanny Felixes without money— AGNUS (_turning wildly_) The Devil give me strength to thrash you within an inch of your life! [_Onfroy catches hold of his hands._ AGNUS (_helpless_) The Devil give me strength— [_The hitherto crouching figure shoots up outside and a face becomes visible at the window. Neither one of the men inside sees it._ ONFROY