Adelaide!
MRS. SYLVESTER.
He does drink, doesn't he--when he's thirsty anyhow? And artists are so
often thirsty. Charles is often thirsty. He says it is a characteristic
feature of the artistic temperament. Ah! my dear.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Why that sigh?
MRS. SYLVESTER (_sighing again_).
Heigh ho!
MRS. TEMPENNY (_affectionately_).
Adelaide?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Eugenia!
(_They touch each other's hands sympathetically_.)
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Aren't you happy, Adelaide?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I am married to an artist, Euna! I wouldn't say as much to anybody
else, but we were girls at school together.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
But, dear Addie, everybody knows you are married to an artist.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I mean I would not say to anybody else that I am not entirely happy.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_enthusiastically_).
Do tell me all about it.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
I am jealous.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Of whom?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Oh no one--of everybody; of my husband's past, which I know--of his
life to-day, which is too circumspect to be sincere.
MRS. TEMPENNY (_with misgiving_).
But--but Rembrandt's life is also circumspect.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Poor child.
MRS. TEMPENNY.
You pity me?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Horribly. To be married to a painter--what a fate! To have a husband
who is shut up alone all day with a creature who--who wears--
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Rembrandt's models _do_--.
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Wear--?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Plenty!
MRS. SYLVESTER (_gloomily_).
Clothes sometimes cover a multitude of sins. They are no guarantee.
Rosaline wore them!
MRS. TEMPENNY.
Rosaline?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
You have not heard of Rosaline?
MRS. TEMPENNY.
No. A model?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
A serpent!
MRS. TEMPENNY.
The wretch. Pretty of course?
MRS. SYLVESTER.
Serpents are always pretty. One day, not long after we were married, I
came across her photograph--I was tidying up an old desk of Charles', a
photo, my dear, with an inscription that left no doubt what their
relations had been. I tore it up before his face; and for a time,
excepting for the girlish illusions he had shattered, that was an end
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