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Table of contents
AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE
SPIRES AND GARGOYLES
THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS
NARCISSUS OFF DUTY
THE DEBUTANTE
EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE
YOUNG IRONY
THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE
THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE

Dawson Ryder is coming up. Now there's a young man I like, and he's 

floating in money. It seems to me that since you seem tired of Howard 

Gillespie you might give Mr. Ryder some encouragement. This is the third 

time he's been up in a month. 

 

ROSALIND: How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie? 

 

MRS. CONNAGE: The poor boy looks so miserable every time he comes. 

 

ROSALIND: That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. They're 

all wrong. 

 

MRS. CONNAGE: (Her say said) At any rate, make us proud of you to-night. 

 

ROSALIND: Don't you think I'm beautiful? 

 

MRS. CONNAGE: You know you are. 

 

(From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the roll of 

a drum. MRS. CONNAGE turns quickly to her daughter.) 

 

MRS. CONNAGE: Come! 

 

ROSALIND: One minute! 

 

(Her mother leaves. ROSALIND goes to the glass where she gazes at 

herself with great satisfaction. She kisses her hand and touches her 

mirrored mouth with it. Then she turns out the lights and leaves the 

room. Silence for a moment. A few chords from the piano, the discreet 

patter of faint drums, the rustle of new silk, all blend on the 

staircase outside and drift in through the partly opened door. Bundled 

figures pass in the lighted hall. The laughter heard below becomes 

doubled and multiplied. Then some one comes in, closes the door, and 

switches on the lights. It is CECELIA. She goes to the chiffonier, 

looks in the drawers, hesitates--then to the desk whence she takes the 

cigarette-case and extracts one. She lights it and then, puffing and 

blowing, walks toward the mirror.) 

 

CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, yes, coming out 

is _such_ a farce nowadays, you know. One really plays around so much 

before one is seventeen, that it's positively anticlimax. (Shaking hands 

with a visionary middle-aged nobleman.) Yes, your grace--I b'lieve 

I've heard my sister speak of you. 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 


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