Scene I In Guy Fallon’s Garden

Katya. What you have never understood, dear, is that mamma is terribly indelicate. Proper people nearly always are.

Mariana. Yes, but.... How can she?

Katya. I don’t know. But she’s doing it now, this very minute. Imagine Guy’s blushes.

Mariana. Poor Guy! But, really, if it’s any one’s duty to ask him, surely it’s yours?

Katya. But I have asked him! He always says no. He detests children—or, at least, he says he does. It’s a disease with mamma. “How I should like to hold a grandchild on my knee ... the patter of its little feet ... its first childish attempts to talk ... its soft smooth cheeks.” That’s how she goes on. Really, she embarrasses even me.

Mariana. Well, I s’pose it’s only natural. But what does your papa say?

Katya. Oh, it hasn’t got as far as that; I hope it never will. You see, mamma will only amuse Guy; papa would make him angry. After all, dear, it’s very soon. And you must remember that even mamma only had one.

Mariana. ’M yes. She needn’t talk, need she?

Katya. But she does. She has asked me all sorts of questions about Guy.

Mariana. Yes? What sort of questions?

Katya. Mariana! As if I’d tell you!

Mariana. Do—please!

Katya. Can’t you guess?

Mariana. I’ve tried—hard. But, you see, I know so little about these things. In fact, I know nothing at all.

Katya. These things?

Mariana. Well, you know what I mean.

Katya. Oh! you might mean anything.

Mariana. I do.

Katya. If you were married, now, I might.

Mariana. I should love to be there, listening.

Katya. It’s a grandson she wants. She’ll order it from Guy. And he will look so awfully solemn and feel so frightfully tickled.

Mariana. Oh, I do wish I was married. It must be so tremendously—well, exciting. So unexpected, you know—the things that happen, I mean.

Katya. Well, it is rather wonderful at first. I have a friend in Brussels—Elise Deschamps. The other day she wrote me such a funny letter. She wanted to know whether she ought to behave just naturally or pretend to be shy.

Mariana. And what did you say?

Katya. What could I say?

Mariana. Really, Katya, you’re frightfully exasperating. You always seem to be on the point of telling me things, but you never do.

Katya. Well, there’s nothing to tell—nothing, that is, that you don’t know already.

Mariana. Oh, how dreadfully disappointing! Isn’t there really more in it than that?

Katya. Than what?

Mariana. Than what I know already.

Katya. But what do you know?

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