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Rosalind: What are you going to do?

Amory: Can’t say—run for President, write——

Rosalind: Greenwich Village?

Amory: Good heavens, no—I said write—not drink.

Rosalind: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely.

Amory: I feel as if I’d known you for ages.

Rosalind: Oh, are you going to commence the “pyramid” story?

Amory: No—I was going to make it French. I was Louis XIV and you were one of my—my—(Changing his tone.) Suppose—we fell in love.

Rosalind: I’ve suggested pretending.

Amory: If we did it would be very big.

Rosalind: Why?

Amory: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.

Rosalind: (Turning her lips up) Pretend.

(Very deliberately they kiss.)

Amory: I can’t say sweet things. But you are beautiful.

Rosalind: Not that.

Amory: What then?

Rosalind: (Sadly) Oh, nothing—only I want sentiment, real sentiment—and I never find it.

Amory: I never find anything else in the world—and I loathe it.

Rosalind: It’s so hard to find a male to gratify one’s artistic taste.