: Is it—I haven’t seen it lately. I’m weary—Do you mind sitting out a minute?
Ryder : Mind—I’m delighted. You know I loathe this “rushing” idea. See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow.
Rosalind : Dawson!
Ryder : What?
Rosalind : I wonder if you know you love me.
Ryder : (Startled ) What—Oh—you know you’re remarkable!
Rosalind : Because you know I’m an awful proposition. Any one who marries me will have his hands full. I’m mean—mighty mean.
Ryder : Oh, I wouldn’t say that.
Rosalind : Oh, yes, I am—especially to the people nearest to me. (She rises. ) Come, let’s go. I’ve changed my mind and I want to dance. Mother is probably having a fit.
(Exeunt. Enter Alec and Cecelia .)
Cecelia : Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission.
Alec : (Gloomily ) I’ll go if you want me to.
Cecelia : Good heavens, no—with whom would I begin the next dance? (Sighs. ) There’s no color in a dance since the French officers went back.
Alec : (Thoughtfully ) I don’t want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind.
Cecelia : Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want.
Alec : I did, but since seeing these girls—I don’t know. I’m awfully attached to Amory. He’s sensitive and I don’t want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn’t care about him.
Cecelia : He’s very good looking.
Alec : (Still thoughtfully ) She won’t marry him, but a girl doesn’t have to marry a man to break his heart.
Cecelia : What does it? I wish I knew the secret.
Alec : Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It’s lucky for some that the Lord gave you a pug nose.
(Enter Mrs. Connage .)
Mrs. Connage : Where on earth is Rosalind?
Alec : (Brilliantly ) Of course you’ve come to the best people to find out. She’d naturally be with us.
Mrs. Connage : Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to meet her.
Alec : You might form a squad and march through the halls.
Mrs. Connage : I’m perfectly serious—for all I know she may be at the Cocoanut Grove with some football player on the night of her début. You look left and I’ll——
Alec : (Flippantly ) Hadn’t you better send the butler through the cellar?
Mrs. Connage : (Perfectly serious ) Oh, you don’t think she’d be there?
Cecelia : He’s only joking, mother.
Alec : Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high hurdler.
Mrs. Connage : Let’s look right away.
(They go out. Rosalind comes in with Gillespie .)
Gillespie : Rosalind—Once more I ask you. Don’t you care a blessed thing about me?
(Amory walks in briskly. )
Amory : My dance.
Rosalind : Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine.
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.”
