PRATTLE. Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetry as I can by betting I don't say I wouldn't try the poetry touch, only--
PRATTLE. Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more sense in betting, somehow.
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. 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. You believe in the Lord Mayor of London, don't you?
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....
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._)
PRATTLE. Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right.
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.
PRATTLE. It reminds me of your room at Eton.
PRATTLE. Yes, you always had papers all over your floor.
DE REVES. All these are poems; and this is my altar to Fame.
DE REVES. Keats never saw her. Shelley died too young. She came late at the best of times, now scarcely ever.