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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
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 blasť, 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,
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
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