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.]

CURTAIN.