Young man.  A peach?

     [Arnaud brings peaches to the table]

Clare. [Smiling] Thank you.

     [He fills their glasses and retreats]

Clare. [Raising her glass] Eat and drink, for tomorrow we—­Listen!

     From the supper-party comes the sound of an abortive chorus: 
     “With a hey ho, chivy, hark forrard, hark forrard, tantivy!”
     Jarring out into a discordant whoop, it sinks.

Clare.  “This day a stag must die.”  Jolly old song!

Young man.  Rowdy lot! [Suddenly] I say—­I admire your pluck.

Clare. [Shaking her head] Haven’t kept my end up.  Lots of women do!  You see:  I’m too fine, and not fine enough!  My best friend said that.  Too fine, and not fine enough. [She laughs] I couldn’t be a saint and martyr, and I wouldn’t be a soulless doll.  Neither one thing nor the other—­that’s the tragedy.

Young man.  You must have had awful luck!

Clare.  I did try. [Fiercely] But what’s the good—­when there’s nothing before you?—­Do I look ill?

Young man.  No; simply awfully pretty.

Clare. [With a laugh] A man once said to me:  “As you haven’t money, you should never have been pretty!” But, you see, it is some good.  If I hadn’t been, I couldn’t have risked coming here, could I?  Don’t you think it was rather sporting of me to buy these [She touches the gardenias] with the last shilling over from my cab fare?

Young man.  Did you really?  D—–­d sporting!

Clare.  It’s no use doing things by halves, is it?  I’m—­in for it—­ wish me luck! [She drinks, and puts her glass down with a smile] In for it—­deep! [She flings up her hands above her smiling face] Down, down, till they’re just above water, and then—­down, down, down, and —­all over!  Are you sorry now you came and spoke to me?

Young man.  By Jove, no!  It may be caddish, but I’m not.

Clare.  Thank God for beauty!  I hope I shall die pretty!  Do you think I shall do well?

Young man.  I say—­don’t talk like that!

Clare.  I want to know.  Do you?

Young man.  Well, then—­yes, I do.

Clare.  That’s splendid.  Those poor women in the streets would give their eyes, wouldn’t they?—­that have to go up and down, up and down!  Do you think I—­shall——­

     The young man, half-rising, puts his hand on her arm.

Young man.  I think you’re getting much too excited.  You look all—­ Won’t you eat your peach? [She shakes her head] Do!  Have something else, then—­some grapes, or something?

Clare.  No, thanks.

     [She has become quite calm again]

Young man.  Well, then, what d’you think?  It’s awfully hot in here, isn’t it?  Wouldn’t it be jollier drivin’?  Shall we—­shall we make a move?