DE REVES. Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made him
Lord Mayor, and so he is one....
PRATTLE. Well, of course he is.
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._)
DE REVES. Look out! Look out!
PRATTLE. What? What's the matter?
DE REVES. The screen!
PRATTLE. Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right.
(_He is about to go round behind it._)
DE REVES. No, don't go round there.
PRATTLE. What? Why not?
DE REVES. Oh, you wouldn't understand.
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.
DE REVES. Well, what do you make of it?
PRATTLE. It reminds me of your room at Eton.
DE REVES. My room at Eton?
PRATTLE. Yes, you always had papers all over your floor.