MRS. KNOWLE. No, dear, not just now. Let me be by myself for a little. (She turns back suddenly at the door) Oh! Perhaps later on, when the men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you might join me, with your Uncle Henry—if the opportunity occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of course.
[She goes.
JANE (coming back to the sofa). Poor Aunt Mary! It always seems so queer that one's mother and aunts and people should have had their romances too.
MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and subscription dances and wearing tight shoes?
JANE (awkwardly). Well, no, darling, not romance of course, but you know what I mean.
MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace little story which mother has just told us, and compare it with any of the love-stories of history. Isn't it pitiful, Jane, that people should be satisfied now with so little?
JANE. Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don't think Aunt Mary—
MELISANDE. I am not blaming Mother. It is the same almost everywhere nowadays. There is no romance left.
JANE. No, darling. Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I do agree with you. It is very sad. Somehow there is no—(she searches for the right word)—no romance left.
MELISANDE. Just think of the average marriage. It makes one shudder.