[The COMTESSE looks not aloft but toward the chair at present
occupied by MAGGIE.]
COMTESSE. Where does she sit, Mr. Shand?
[He knows that women are not well read.]
JOHN. It's just a figure of speech.
[He returns airily to his committee room; and now again you may hear
the click of MAGGIE's needles. They no longer annoy the COMTESSE; she
is setting them to music.]
COMTESSE. It is not down here she sits, Mrs. Shand, knitting a
stocking.
MAGGIE. No, it isn't.
COMTESSE. And when I came in I gave him credit for everything; even
for the prettiness of the room!
MAGGIE. He has beautiful taste.
COMTESSE. Good-bye, Scotchy.
MAGGIE. Good-bye, Comtesse, and thank you for coming.
COMTESSE. Good-bye--Miss Pin.
[MAGGIE rings genteelly.]
MAGGIE. Good-bye.
[The COMTESSE is now lost in admiration of her.]
COMTESSE. You divine little wife. He can't be worthy of it, no man
could be worthy of it. Why do you do it?
[MAGGIE shivers a little.]
MAGGIE. He loves to think he does it all himself; that's the way of
men. I'm six years older than he is. I'm plain, and I have no charm.
I shouldn't have let him marry me. I'm trying to make up for it.
[The COMTESSE kisses her and goes away. MAGGIE, somewhat foolishly,
resumes her knitting.]
[Some days later this same room is listening--with the same
inattention--to the outpouring of JOHN SHAND's love for the lady of
the hiccoughs.
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