DORN. Fifty, did you say?
ARKADINA. I wore a perfectly magnificent dress; I am no fool when it comes to clothes.
PAULINA. Constantine is playing again; the poor boy is sad.
SHAMRAEFF. He has been severely criticised in the papers.
MASHA. Seventy-seven.
ARKADINA. They want to attract attention to him.
TRIGORIN. He doesn’t seem able to make a success, he can’t somehow strike the right note. There is an odd vagueness about his writings that sometimes verges on delirium. He has never created a single living character.
MASHA. Eleven.
ARKADINA. Are you bored, Peter? [A pause] He is asleep.
DORN. The Councillor is taking a nap.