(_He holds up his hands to her and leads her down from the altar and into the centre of the stage. At whatever moment the actor finds it most convenient, he repossesses himself of the sonnet that he had placed on the altar. He now offers it to_ FAME.)
(FAME _takes it, reads it in silence, while the_ POET _watches her rapturously._)
DE REVES. But ... it is not possible ... are you she that knew Homer?
FAME. Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e couldn't see a yard.
(FAME _walks beautifully to the window. She opens it and puts her head out._)
FAME (_in a voice with which a woman in an upper story would cry for help if the house was well alight_). Hi! Hi! Boys! Hi! Say, folks! Hi!
(_The murmur of a gathering crowd is heard._ FAME _blows her trumpet._)
FAME. Hi, he's a poet. (_Quickly, over her shoulder._) What's your name?
DE REVES. I ... I ... I don't quite understand.
FAME. Well, which do you like best, green or blue?
DE REVES. Oh--er--blue. (_She blows her trumpet out of the window._) No--er--I think green.
FAME. 'Ere, tell us something. They want to know all about yer.
DE REVES; Wouldn't you perhaps ... would they care to hear my sonnet, if you would--er....
FAME (_picking up quill_). Here, what's this?
FAME (_after another blast on her trumpet_). He writes with a quill. (_Cheers from_ THE CROWD.)
FAME (_going to a cupboard_). Here, what have you got in here?
DE REVES. Oh ... er ... those are my breakfast things.
FAME (_finding a dirty plate_). What have yer had on this one?
DE REVES (_mournfully_). Oh, eggs and bacon.
FAME (_at the window_). He has eggs and bacon for breakfast.
THE CROWD. Hip hip hip _hooray!_ Hip hip hip _hooray!_ Hip hip hip _hooray!_
DE REVES (_miserably_). Oh, a golf stick.
FAME. He's a man's man! He's a virile man! He's a manly man!
(_Wild cheers from_ THE CROWD, _this time only from women's voices._)
DE REVES. Oh, this is terrible. This is terrible. This is terrible.
(FAME _gives another peal on her horn. She is about to speak._)
DE REVES (_solemnly and mournfully_). One moment, one moment....
DE REVES. For ten years, divine lady, I have worshipped you, offering all my songs ... I find ... I find I am not worthy....
DE REVES. No, no, I am not worthy. It cannot be. It cannot possibly be. Others deserve you more. I must say it! _I cannot possibly love you._ Others are worthy. You will find others. But I, no, no, no. It cannot be. It cannot be. Oh, pardon me, but it _must_ not.