tairs, 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
toward you.

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 blase, 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,
that's all.

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
he's interested. There is a moment--Oh, just before the first kiss, a
whispered word--something that makes it worth while.

GILLESPIE: And then?

ROSALIND: Then after that you make him talk about himself. Pretty soon
he thinks of nothing but being alone with you--he sulks, he won't fight,
he doesn't want to play--Victory!

(Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own,
a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.)

RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind.

ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven't