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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 got too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie.

(They shake hands and Gillespie leaves, tremendously downcast.)

Ryder: Your party is certainly a success.

Rosalind: Is it—I haven’t seen it lately. I’m weary—Do you mind sitting out a minute?

Ryder: Mind—I’m delighted. You know I loathe this “rushing” idea. See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow.