friend, that I’m not like Mrs. Buzgago. That’s the way she stands, with her hands clasped at the back of her head. D’you like that?

He. Don’t be affected.

She. I’m not. I’m Mrs. Buzgago. Listen!

That’s the way she rolls her r’s. Am I like her?

He. No, but I object when you go on like an actress and sing stuff of that kind. Where in the world did you pick up the Chanson du Colonel? It isn’t a drawing-room song. It isn’t proper.

She. Mrs. Buzgago taught it me. She is both drawing-room and proper, and in another month she’ll shut her drawing-room to me, and thank God she isn’t as improper as I am. Oh, Guy, Guy! I wish I was like some women and had no scruples about—What is it Keene says?—‘Wearing a corpse’s hair and being false to the bread they eat.’

He. I am only a man of limited intelligence, and, just now, very bewildered. When you have quite finished flashing through all your moods tell me, and I’ll try to understand the last one.

She. Moods, Guy! I haven’t any. I’m sixteen years old and you’re just twenty, and you’ve been waiting for two hours outside the school in the cold. And now I’ve met you, and now we’re walking home together. Does that suit you, My Imperial Majesty?

He. No. We aren’t children. Why can’t you be rational?

She. He asks me that when I’m going to commit suicide for his sake, and, and—I don’t want to be French and rave about my mother, but have I ever told you that I have a mother, and a brother who was my pet before I married? He’s married now. Can’t you imagine the pleasure that the news of the elopement will give him? Have you any people at Home, Guy, to be pleased with your performances?

He. One or two. One can’t make omelets without breaking eggs.

She (slowly). I don’t see the necessity—

He. Hah! What do you mean?

She. Shall I speak the truth?

He Under the circumstances, perhaps it would be as well.

She. Guy, I’m afraid.

He I thought we’d settled all that. What of?

She. Of you.

He. Oh, damn it all! The old business! This is toobad!

She. Of you.