LITMIR.BIZ

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ears. I won't leave her in uncertainty, and even before she asks I'll tell her she may stay with us; but I shall tell her, too, what I expect from her in return.

      Guéret. Wouldn't it be better—

      Madame Guéret. My dear, I shall go my own way. See what we're suffering now in consequence of going yours. Here's Madame Nérisse. Then the play is over. [To her husband] You must go and look after the people at the supper table. I'll join you in a minute.

      Guéret. All right.

      He goes out.

      Madame Nérisse. I've hardly ever been at such a successful party. I wanted to congratulate dear Thérèse, but she's gone to change her dress.

      Madame Guéret [absently] So glad. Were you speaking of having a notice of it in your paper?

      Madame Nérisse. Of your play! If I was going to notice it! I should think so! The photographs we had taken at the dress rehearsal are being developed. We shall have a wonderful description.

      Madame Guéret [imploring] Could it be stopped?

      Madame Nérisse. It's not possible! Just think how amazed the subscribers to Feminine Art would be if they found nothing in their paper about your lovely performance of Barberine, even if the editress of the paper hadn't taken a part in the play. If it only depended on me, perhaps I could find some way out—explain it in some way, just to please you. But then there's your charming Thérèse—one of our contributors. I can't tell you what a wonderful success she's had with her two stories, illustrated by herself. People adore her.

      Madame Guéret. Nobody would know anything about it—

      Madame Nérisse. Nobody know! There are at least ten people among your guests who will send descriptions of this party to the biggest morning papers, simply for the sake of getting their own names into print. If Feminine Art had nothing about it, it would be thought extremely odd, I assure you. [She turns to Féliat] Wouldn't it, Monsieur?

      Féliat. Pardon me, Madame, I know nothing about these things.

      Madame Guéret. Well, we'll say no more about it.

      Madame Nérisse. But what's the matter? You must have some very good reason for not wanting me to put in anything about your delightful party.

      Madame Guéret. No——only——[Hesitating] Some of our family are country people, you know. It would take me too long to explain it all to you. It doesn't matter. [With a change of tone] Then honestly you think Thérèse has some little talent?

      Madame Nérisse. Little talent! No, but very great talent. Haven't you read her two articles?

      Madame Guéret. Oh, I? I belong to another century. In my days it would have been considered a very curious thing if a young girl wrote novels. My brother feels this too. By the way, I have not introduced my brother to you. Monsieur Féliat, of Evreux—Madame Nérisse, editress of Feminine Art. Madame Nérisse has been kind enough to help us with our little party. [To Madame Nérisse] Yes—you were speaking about—what was it—this story that Thérèse has written. No doubt your readers were indulgent to the work of a little amateur.

      Madame Nérisse. I wish I could find professionals who'd do half as well. I'm perfectly certain the number her photograph is going to be in will have a good sale.

      Féliat. You'll publish her photograph?

      Madame Nérisse. In her dress as Kalekairi.

      Madame Guéret. In her dress as Kalekairi!

      Madame Nérisse. On the front page. They tell me it's a first-rate likeness. I'll bring you one of them before long, and your country relations will be delighted. If you'll excuse me, I'll hurry away and change my dress.

      Madame Guéret. Oh, please excuse me for keeping you.

      Madame Nérisse. Good-bye for the present. [She goes to the door] I was looking for Maud and Nadia to take them away with me. I see them over there having a little flirtation. [She looks through the door and speaks pleasantly to Maud and Nadia, who are just outside] All right, all right; I won't interrupt. [To Madame Guéret] They'd much rather come home alone. Good-bye. [She bows to Féliat] Good-bye, Monsieur. [Turning again to Madame Guéret] Don't look so upset because you have a goddaughter who can be a great writer or a great painter if she chooses; just as she would have been a great actress if she had taken a fancy for that. Good-bye again and many congratulations.

      She goes out.

      Madame Guéret. Well! Anyway, she's not my daughter! I must go and say good-bye to everybody. When I've got rid of them, I'll come back and see Thérèse. Will you wait for me? You'll find some papers on that little table. Oh, goodness, what times we live in!

      Madame Guéret goes out. Féliat, left alone, strolls to the door and looks in the direction in which Madame Nérisse had seen Maud and Nadia. After a moment he shows signs of indignation.

      Féliat [shocked] Oh, I say, this is really—I must cough or something, and let them know I'm here. [He coughs] They've seen me. They're waving their hands—and—they 're going on just the same!

      Lucienne and Thérèse in ordinary dress come in and notice what Féliat is doing.

      Thérèse [to Lucienne] What is he doing?

      Lucienne. What's the matter?

      They advance to see what has caused his perturbation. He hears them and turns.

      Féliat. It is incredible!

      Thérèse. You seem rather upset. What's the matter?

      Féliat. What's the matter? Those girls are behaving in such a scandalous way with those young men.

      Lucienne. Let's see.

      Féliat. Oh, don't look! [Suddenly stopping, half to himself] Though I must say—

      Thérèse [laughing] What must you say?

      Féliat. Nothing.

      Lucienne. I know. You mean that we're just as bad.

      Féliat. No, no, not as bad.

      Lucienne. Yes, yes; well—almost. [Féliat makes a sign of protest] I saw you watching us yesterday after the rehearsal! You saw I was flirting, and I know you imagined all sorts of horrid things. Our little flirtations are not what you think. When we flirt we play at love-making with our best boys, just as once upon a time we played at mothering with our dolls.

      Féliat. But that doesn't justify—

      Thérèse. You don't understand. People spoil us while we're children, and then look after us so tremendously carefully when we grow up that we guess there must be delightful and dangerous possibilities about us. Flirting is our way of feeling for these possibilities.

      Lucienne. We're sharpening our weapons.

      Thérèse. But the foils have buttons on them, and the pistols are only loaded with powder.

      Lucienne. And it's extremely amusing and does no harm to anybody.

      Thérèse. Monsieur Féliat, you've read bad books. Nowadays girls like us are neither bread-and-butter misses nor demi-vierges. We're perfectly respectable young people. Quite capable and self-possessed and, at the same time, quite straight and very happy.

      Féliat. I'm perfectly sure of it, my dear young ladies. But you know I've had a great deal of experience.

      Thérèse. Oh, experience! Well, you know—

      Lucienne. Oh, experience!

      Thérèse. You say you have experience; that only means you know about the past better than we do. But we know much better than you do about the present.

      Féliat. I think those girls there are playing a dangerous game.

      Thérèse. You needn't

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