DOLPHIN. Not often.

AMY. Nor do we over at home.

DOLPHIN. So I should suppose. (_Silence. A spasm of anguish crosses_ DOLPHIN'S _face; then he rea.s.sumes the old Thinker's mask._ AMY _looks at him for a little longer, then, unable to suppress her growing curiosity, she says with a sudden burst of childish confidence:_)

AMY. It must be wonderful to be able to think as hard as you do, Mr.

Dolphin. Or are you sad about something?

DOLPHIN (_looks up, smiles, and blushes; a spell has been broken_). The finger at the temple, Miss Toomis, is not the barrel of a revolver.

AMY. That means you're not specially sad about anything. Just thinking.

DOLPHIN. Just thinking.

AMY. What about?

DOLPHIN. Oh, just life, you know--life and letters.

AMY. Letters? Do you mean love letters.

DOLPHIN. No, no. Letters in the sense of literature; letters as opposed to life.

AMY. (_disappointed_). Oh, literature. They used to teach us literature at school. But I could never understand Emerson. What do you think about literature for?

DOLPHIN. It interests me, you know. I read it; I even try to write it.

AMY (_very much excited_). What, are you a writer, a poet, Mr. Dolphin?

DOLPHIN. Alas, it is only too true; I am.

AMY. But what do you write?

DOLPHIN. Verse and prose, Miss Toomis. Just verse and prose.

AMY (_with enthusiasm_). Isn't that interesting. I've never met a poet before, you know.

DOLPHIN. Fortunate being. Why, before I left England I attended a luncheon of the Poetry Union at which no less than a hundred and eighty-nine poets were present. The sight of them made me decide to go to Italy.

AMY. Will you show me your books?

DOLPHIN. Certainly not, Miss Toomis. That would ruin our friendship. I am insufferable in my writings. In them I give vent to all the horrible thoughts and impulses which I am too timid to express or put into practice in real life. Take me as you find me here, a decent specimen of a man, shy but able to talk intelligently when the layers of ice are broken, aimless, ineffective, but on the whole quite a good sort.

AMY. But I know that man already, Mr. Dolphin. I want to know the poet.

Tell me what the poet is like.

DOLPHIN. He is older, Miss Toomis, than the rocks on which he sits. He is villainous. He is ... but there, I really must stop. It was you who set me going, though. Did you do it on purpose.

AMY. Do what on purpose?

DOLPHIN. Make me talk about myself. If you want to get people to like you, you must always lead the conversation on to the subject of their characters. Nothing pleases them so much. They'll talk with enthusiasm for hours and go away saying that you're the most charming, cleverest person they've ever met. But of course you knew that already. You re Machiavellian.

AMY. Machiavellian? You're the first person that's ever said that. I always thought I was very simple and straight-forward. People say about me that.... Ah, now I'_m_ talking about myself. That was unscrupulous of you. But you shouldn't have told me about the trick if you wanted it to succeed.

DOLPHIN. Yes. It was silly of me. If I hadn't, you'd have gone on talking about yourself and thought me the nicest man in the world.

AMY. I want to hear about your poetry. Are you writing any now?

DOLPHIN. I have composed the first line of a magnificent epic. But I can't get any further.

AMY. How does it go?

DOLPHIN. Like this (_he clears his throat_). "Casbeen has been, and Moghreb is no more." Ah, the transience of all sublunary things! But inspiration has stopped short there.

AMY. What exactly does it mean?

DOLPHIN. Ah, there you re asking too much, Miss Toomis. Waiter, some coffee for two.

WAITER (_who is standing in the door of the lounge_). Si, Signore. Will the lady and gentleman take it here, or in the gardens, perhaps?

DOLPHIN. A good suggestion. Why shouldn't the lady and gentleman take it in the garden?

AMY. Why not?

DOLPHIN. By the fountain, then, Waiter. We can talk about ourselves there to the tune of falling waters.

AMY. And you shall recite your poetry, Mr. Dolphin. I just love poetry.

Do you know Mrs. Wilc.o.x's _Poems of Pa.s.sion_? (_They go out to the left.

A nightingale utters two or three phrases of song and from far down the bells of the city jangle the three-quarters and die slowly away into the silence out of which they rose and came together._)

(LUCREZIA GRATTAROL _has come out of the hotel just in time to overhear Miss Toomis's last remark, just in time to see her walk slowly away with a hand on_ SIDNEY DOLPHIN's _arm_. LUCREZIA _has a fine thoroughbred appearance, an aquiline nose, a finely curved sensual mouth, a superb white brow, a quivering nostril. She is the last of a family whose name is as ill.u.s.trious in Venetian annals as that of Foscarini, Tiepolo, or Tron. She stamps a preposterously high-heeled foot and tosses her head._)

LUCREZIA. Pa.s.sion! Pa.s.sion, indeed. An American! (_She starts to run after the retreating couple, when_ ALBERTO, _who has been sitting with his head between his hands, looks up and catches sight of the newcomer_.)

ALBERTO. Lucrezia!

LUCREZIA (_starts, for in the shade beneath the trees she had not seen him_). Oh! You gave me such a fright, Alberto. I'm in a hurry now. Later on, if you....

ALBERTO (_in a desperate voice that breaks into a sob_). Lucrezia! You must come and talk to me. You must.

LUCREZIA. But I tell you I can't now, Alberto. Later on.

ALBERTO (_the tears streaming down his cheeks_). Now, now, now! You must come now. I am lost if you don't.

LUCREZIA (_looking indecisively first at_ ALBERTO _and then along the path down which_ AMY _and_ SIDNEY DOLPHIN _have disappeared_). But supposing I am lost if I do come?

ALBERTO. But you couldn't be as much lost as I am. Ah, you don't know what it is to suffer. Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt weiss wa.s.s ich leide.

Oh, Lucrezia.... (_He sobs unrestrainedly_.)

LUCREZIA (_goes over to where_ ALBERTO _is sitting. She pats his shoulder and his bowed head of black curly hair_). There, there, my little Bertino. Tell me what it is. You mustn't cry. There, there.