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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 blasé, 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.