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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

 

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! 


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