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(Emphatically) My dear boy, the war is over.

      He: So I’ll always be afraid of you.

      She: (Rather sadly) I suppose you will.

      (A slight hesitation on both their parts.)

      He: (After due consideration) Listen. This is a frightful thing to ask.

      She: (Knowing what’s coming) After five minutes.

      He: But will you—kiss me? Or are you afraid?

      She: I’m never afraid—but your reasons are so poor.

      He: Rosalind, I really want to kiss you.

      She: So do I.

      (They kiss—definitely and thoroughly.)

      He: (After a breathless second) Well, is your curiosity satisfied?

      She: Is yours?

      He: No, it’s only aroused.

      (He looks it.)

      She: (Dreamily) I’ve kissed dozens of men. I suppose I’ll kiss dozens more.

      He: (Abstractedly) Yes, I suppose you could—like that.

      She: Most people like the way I kiss.

      He: (Remembering himself) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more, Rosalind.

      She: No—my curiosity is generally satisfied at one.

      He: (Discouraged) Is that a rule?

      She: I make rules to fit the cases.

      He: You and I are somewhat alike—except that I’m years older in experience.

      She: How old are you?

      He: Almost twenty-three. You?

      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!

      Mrs. Connage: Rosalind, you’ve been a very expensive proposition.

      Rosalind: (Resignedly) Yes.

      Mrs. Connage: And you know your father hasn’t what he once had.

      Rosalind: (Making a wry face) Oh, please don’t talk about money.

      Mrs. Connage: You can’t do anything without it. This is our last year in this house—and unless things change Cecelia won’t have the advantages you’ve had.

      Rosalind: (Impatiently) Well—what is it?

      Mrs. Connage: So I ask you to please mind me in several things I’ve put down in my note-book. The first one is: don’t disappear with young men. There may be a time when it’s valuable, but at present I want you on the dance-floor where I can find you. There are certain men I want to have you meet and I don’t like finding you in some corner of the conservatory exchanging silliness with any one—or listening to it.

      Rosalind: (Sarcastically) Yes, listening to it is better.

      Mrs. Connage: And don’t waste a lot of time with the college set—little boys nineteen and twenty years old. I don’t mind a prom or a football game, but staying away from advantageous parties to eat in little cafés down-town with Tom, Dick, and Harry—— Rosalind: (Offering her code, which is, in its way, quite as high as her mother’s) Mother, it’s done—you can’t run everything now the way you did in the early nineties.

      Mrs. Connage: (Paying no attention) There are several bachelor friends of your father’s that I want you to meet to-night—youngish men.

      Rosalind: (Nodding wisely) About forty-five?

      Mrs. Connage: (Sharply) Why not?

      Rosalind: Oh, quite all right—they know life and are so adorably tired looking (shakes her head)—but they will dance.

      Mrs. Connage: I haven’t met Mr. Blaine—but I don’t think you’ll care for him. He doesn’t sound like a money-maker.

      Rosalind: Mother, I never think about money.

      Mrs. Connage: You never keep it long enough to think about it.

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