Languid lord. [To the young man standing there aghast] What’s this? Friend of yours?
Young man. My God! She was a lady. That’s all I know about her.
Languid lord. A lady!
[The blond and dark gentlemen have slipped from the room; and out of the supper-party’s distant laughter comes suddenly a long, shrill: “Gone away!” And the sound of the horn playing the seven last notes of the old song: “This day a stag must die!” From the last note of all the sound flies up to an octave higher, sweet and thin, like a spirit passing, till it is drowned once more in laughter. The young man has covered his eyes with his hands; Arnaud is crossing himself fervently; the languid lord stands gazing, with one of the dropped gardenias twisted in his fingers; and the woman, bending over Clare, kisses her forehead.]