: I’m—I’m religious—I’m literary. I’ve—I’ve even written poems.
She : Vers libre—splendid! (She declaims. )
“The trees are green,
The birds are singing in the trees,
The girl sips her poison
The bird flies away the girl dies.”
He : (Laughing ) No, not that kind.
She : (Suddenly ) I like you.
He : Don’t.
She : Modest too——
He : I’m afraid of you. I’m always afraid of a girl—until I’ve kissed her.
She : (Emphatically ) My dear boy, the war is over.
He : So I’ll always be afraid of you.
She : (Rather sadly ) I suppose you will.
(A slight hesitation on both their parts. )
He : (After due consideration ) Listen. This is a frightful thing to ask.
She : (Knowing what’s coming ) After five minutes.
He : But will you—kiss me? Or are you afraid?
She : I’m never afraid—but your reasons are so poor.
He : Rosalind, I really want to kiss you.
She : So do I.
(They kiss—definitely and thoroughly. )
He : (After a breathless second ) Well, is your curiosity satisfied?
She : Is yours?
He : No, it’s only aroused.
(He looks it. )
She : (Dreamily ) I’ve kissed dozens of men. I suppose I’ll kiss dozens more.
He : (Abstractedly ) Yes, I suppose you could—like that.
She : Most people like the way I kiss.
He : (Remembering himself ) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more, Rosalind.
She : No—my curiosity is generally satisfied at one.
He : (Discouraged ) Is that a rule?
She : I make rules to fit the cases.
He : You and I are somewhat alike—except that I’m years older in experience.
She : How old are you?
He : Almost twenty-three. You?
She : Nineteen—just.
He : I suppose you’re the product of a fashionable school.
She : No—I’m fairly raw material. I was expelled from Spence—I’ve forgotten why.
He : What’s your general trend?
She : Oh, I’m bright, quite selfish, emotional when aroused, fond of admiration——
He : (Suddenly ) I don’t want to fall in love with you——
She : (Raising her eyebrows ) Nobody asked you to.
He : (Continuing coldly ) But I probably will. I love your mouth.
She : Hush! Please don’t fall in love with my mouth—hair, eyes, shoulders, slippers—but not my mouth. Everybody falls in love with my mouth.
He : It’s quite beautiful.
She : It’s too small.
He : No it isn’t—let’s see.
(He kisses her again with the same thoroughness. )
She : (Rather moved ) Say something sweet.
He : (Frightened ) Lord help me.
She : (Drawing away ) Well, don’t—if it’s so hard.
He : Shall we pretend? So soon?
She : We haven’t the same standards of time as other people.
He : Already it’s—other people.
She : Let’s pretend.
He : No—I can’t—it’s sentiment.
She : You’re not sentimental?
He : No, I’m romantic—a sentimental person thinks things will last—a romantic person hopes against hope that they won’t. Sentiment is emotional.
She : And you’re not? (With her eyes half-closed. ) You probably flatter yourself that that’s a superior attitude.
He : Well—Rosalind, Rosalind, don’t argue—kiss me again.
She : (Quite chilly now ) No—I have no desire to kiss you.
He : (Openly taken aback ) You wanted to kiss me a minute ago.
She : This is now.
He : I’d better go.
She : I suppose so.
(He goes toward the door. )
She : Oh!
(He turns. )
She : (Laughing ) Score—Home Team: One hundred—Opponents: Zero.
(He starts back. )
She : (Quickly ) Rain—no game.
(He goes out. )
(She goes quietly to the chiffonier, takes out a cigarette-case and hides it in the side drawer of a desk. Her mother enters, note-book in hand. )
Mrs. Connage : Good—I’ve been wanting to speak to you alone before we go down-stairs.
Rosalind : Heavens! you frighten me!
Mrs. Connage : Rosalind, you’ve been a very expensive proposition.
Rosalind : (Resignedly ) Yes.
Mrs. Connage : And you know your father hasn’t what he once had.
Rosalind : (Making a wry face ) Oh, please don’t talk about money.
Mrs. Connage : You can’t do anything without it. This is our last year in this house—and unless things change Cecelia won’t have the advantages you’ve had.
Rosalind
