GILLESPIE: I’ve met Mr. Blaine.
From Lake Geneva, aren’t you?
AMORY: Yes.
GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I’ve been there.
It’s in the—the Middle West, isn’t it?
AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately.
But I always felt that I’d rather be provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning.
GILLESPIE: What!
AMORY: Oh, no offense.
(GILLESPIE bows and leaves.)
ROSALIND: He’s too much people.
AMORY: I was in love with a people once.
ROSALIND: So?
AMORY: Oh, yes—her name was Isabelle—nothing at all to her except what I read into her.
ROSALIND: What happened?
AMORY: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I was—then she threw me over.
Said I was critical and impractical, you know.
ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical?
AMORY: Oh—drive a car, but can’t change a tire.
ROSALIND: What are you going to do?
AMORY: Can’t say—run for President, write—
ROSALIND: Greenwich Village?
AMORY: Good heavens, no—I said write—not drink.
ROSALIND: I like business men.
Clever men are usually so homely.
AMORY: I feel as if I’d known you for ages.
ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the “pyramid” story?
AMORY: No—I was going to make it French.
I was Louis XIV and you were one of my—my—(Changing his tone) Suppose—we fell in love.
ROSALIND: I’ve suggested pretending.
AMORY: If we did it would be very big.
ROSALIND: Why?
AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.
ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend.
(Very deliberately they kiss.)
AMORY: I can’t say sweet things.
But you are beautiful.
ROSALIND: Not that.
AMORY: What then?
ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing—only I want sentiment, real sentiment—and I never find it.
AMORY: I never find anything else in the world—and I loathe it.
ROSALIND: It’s so hard to find a male to gratify one’s artistic taste.
(Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the room. ROSALIND rises.)
ROSALIND: Listen! they’re playing
“Kiss Me Again.”
(He looks at her.)
AMORY: Well?
ROSALIND: Well?
AMORY: (Softly—the battle lost) I love you.
ROSALIND: I love you—now.