She. I can't help it. I wish I were dead! I can't trust you, and I don't
trust myself. Oh, Guy, let it die away and be forgotten!
He. Too late now. I don't understand you I won't and I can't trust
myself to talk this evening. May I call to-morrow?
She. Yes. No! Oh, give me time! The day after. I get into my
'rickshaw here and meet Him at Peliti's. You ride.
He. I'll go on to Peliti's too. I think I want a drink. My world's
knocked about my ears and the stars are falling. Who are those
brutes howling in the Old Library?
She. They're rehearsing the singing-quadrilles for the Fancy Ball.
Can't you hear Mrs. Buzgago's voice? She has a solo. It's quite a
new idea. Listen!
Mrs. Buzgago (in the Old Library, con molt. exp.).
See-saw! Margery Daw!
Sold her bed to lie upon straw.
Wasn't she a silly slut
To sell her bed and lie upon dirt?
Captain Congleton, I'm going to alter that to 'flirt.' It sounds better.
He. No, I've changed my mind about the drink. Good-night, little
lady. I shall see you to-morrow?
She. Ye es. Good-night, Guy. Don't be angry with me.
He. Angry! You know I trust you absolutely. Good-night and God
bless you!
(Three seconds later. Alone.) Hmm! I'd give something to discover
whether there's another man at the back of all this.
A Second-Rate Woman
Est fuga, volvitur rota,
On we drift: where looms the dim port?
One Two Three Four Five contribute their quota:
Something is gained if one caught but the import,
Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha.
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