MAGGIE. Thirty years!
COMTESSE. I was a pretty woman then. I dare say I shall detest him
now; but if I find I do not--let us have a little plot--I shall drop
this book; and then perhaps you will be so charming as--as not to be
here for a little while?
[MR. VENABLES, who enters, is such a courtly seigneur that he seems
to bring the eighteenth century with him; you feel that his sedan
chair is at the door. He stoops over MAGGIE's plebeian hand.]
VENABLES. I hope you will pardon my calling, Mrs. Shand; we had such
a pleasant talk the other evening.
[MAGGIE, of course, is at once deceived by his gracious manner.]
MAGGIE. I think it's kind of you. Do you know each other? The
Comtesse de la Briere.
[He repeats the name with some emotion, and the COMTESSE, half
mischievously, half sadly, holds a hand before her face.]
VENABLES. Comtesse.
COMTESSE. Thirty years, Mr. Venables.
[He gallantly removes the hand that screens her face.]
VENABLES. It does not seem so much.
[She gives him a similar scrutiny.]
COMTESSE. Mon Dieu, it seems all that.
[They smile rather ruefully. MAGGIE like a kind hostess relieves the
tension.]
MAGGIE. The Comtesse has taken a cottage in Surrey for the summer.
VENABLES. I am overjoyed.
COMTESSE. No, Charles, you are not. You no longer care. Fickle one!
And it is only thirty years.
[He sinks into a chair beside her.
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