Percinet. [Rising] Well, well, well!

Sylvette. [Going toward him] What is it?

Percinet. [Hiding the bill] Nothing. [Aside] Now I see why the body was never found!

Sylvette. [Turning around to show Percinet her dress] You’ve said nothing about my dress to-day?

Percinet. [Preoccupied] Blue is not becoming.  I always prefer you in pink.

Sylvette. [Aside] What is the matter?  Can he have found out? [She looks toward the table.] The bill? [She runs to the table.]

Percinet.  What are you looking for?

Sylvette.  Nothing.—­Now let me hear your poem.

Percinet.  No.

Sylvette.  Please!

Percinet.  No.

Sylvette.  But I want to hear it.

Percinet.  The verses are not good.

Sylvette.  Oh! [Aside] I think he knows!

Percinet. [Aside] I think she knows!

Both. [Each to the other] You know!? [After a pause, they laugh.] Ha, ha, ha!

Percinet.  Isn’t it funny?

SYLVETTTE.  Very.

Percinet.  We were made to play a farce—­our fathers were the best of friends all the time!

Sylvette.  Good neighbors.

Percinet.  I’ll warrant they are cousins, too!

Sylvette. [Bowing] I am about to marry my cousin!

Percinet.  My cousin!

Sylvette.  How nice and respectable!

Percinet.  Classic!

Sylvette.  Of course, I had dreamed of a marriage more—­but it is comforting to know that our love coincides with our—­duty!

Percinet.  And the material interests of our fathers.

Sylvette.  An excellent marriage, in short:  a marriage of convenience!  And our poor idyl!

Percinet.  Gone.

Sylvette.  Gone!  So I’m the good little girl of the family!

Percinet.  And I the obedient little son!  But it was only as Romeo that I appealed to you!

Sylvette.  Well, you are no longer that!

Percinet.  And do you think you are Juliet?

Sylvette.  Now you’re bitter.

Percinet.  And you cynical.

Sylvette.  If you were ridiculous, is it my fault?

Percinet.  I at least had a partner!

Sylvette.  I, too!  Poor Blue Bird, you are beautifully plucked!

Percinet. [Bitterly] A pre-arranged abduction!

Sylvette.  Farce, all of it!

Percinet.  And I your savior!  All our poetry was bought and paid for.  Our beautiful bubble is now a tiny fleck of soap.  Farewell, Shakespearean lovers—­we have nothing in common with you!