Have a puff—they’re very good.
They’re—they’re Coronas.
You don’t smoke?
What a pity!
The king doesn’t allow it, I suppose.
Yes, I’ll dance. (So she dances around the room to a tune from down-stairs, her arms outstretched to an imaginary partner, the cigarette waving in her hand.)
Several Hours Later
The corner of a den down-stairs, filled by a very comfortable leather lounge.
A small light is on each side above, and in the middle, over the couch hangs a painting of a very old, very dignified gentleman, period 1860.
Outside the music is heard in a fox-trot.
ROSALIND is seated on the lounge and on her left is HOWARD GILLESPIE, a vapid youth of about twenty-four.
He is obviously very unhappy, and she is quite bored.
GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I’ve changed.
I feel the same toward you.
ROSALIND: But you don’t look the same to me.
GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I was so blase, so indifferent—I still am.
ROSALIND: But not about me.
I used to like you because you had brown eyes and thin legs.
GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They’re still thin and brown.
You’re a vampire, that’s all.
ROSALIND: The only thing I know about vamping is what’s on the piano score.
What confuses men is that I’m perfectly natural.
I used to think you were never jealous.
Now you follow me with your eyes wherever I go.
GILLESPIE: I love you.
ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it.
GILLESPIE: And you haven’t kissed me for two weeks.
I had an idea that after a girl was kissed she was—was—won.
ROSALIND: Those days are over.
I have to be won all over again every time you see me.
GILLESPIE: Are you serious?
ROSALIND: About as usual.
There used to be two kinds of kisses: First when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged.
Now there’s a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted.
If Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged he’d kissed a girl, every one knew he was through with her.
If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same every one knows it’s because he can’t kiss her any more.
Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays.
GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men?
ROSALIND: (Leaning forward confidentially) For that first moment, when he’s interested.
There is a moment—Oh, just before the first kiss, a whispered word—something that makes it worth while.
GILLESPIE: And then?
ROSALIND: Then after that you make him talk about himself.
Pretty soon he thinks of nothing but being alone with you—he sulks, he won’t fight, he doesn’t want to play—Victory!
(Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own, a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.)
RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind.
ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me.
Now I know I haven’t got too much paint on.
Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie.
(They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.)
RYDER: Your party is certainly a success.