Reckoning our acquaintance from last week—from the afternoon Bertie brought you here, when we scarcely spoke to one another—you haven’t known me for as many days as you can count on your fingers.
Farncombe.
I’ve watched you—watched you in the theatre——
Lily.
On the stage! Ho, ho! Oh, you—but I mustn’t call you silly boy again, must I! And what do you know of me, apart from the glimpse you’ve had of me off the stage, and my being a shining light at the Pandora? What do you know of my—what’s the word?—origin—where and what I’ve sprung from; how I was reared; how much education I’ve received; how much I’ve contrived to pick up of the way to behave in perlite society? You can judge from poor mother, if from nothing else, that I come from humble beginnings. Yes, but how humble you couldn’t dream, making a grimace not after a supper of raw carrots!
Farncombe.
Do you think I care how humble your beginnings were! What I do know—what I am sure about—is that you’re good—and beautiful—and—and—and gifted—and—and— leaning his head on his hands oh, I can’t describe you; you’re—you’re—to me, you’re perfect.
Lily.
After a pause, looking at him with blinking eyelids. You—you dear! He raises his head. She changes her tone instantly. Merci; yes, perfect, pour le moment. Hear my French! Taking the box of cigarettes from the table. Have a cigarette? Don’t get up. She tosses him a cigarette and he catches it. My name’s printed on them—“Lily.” Lighting a cigarette. Isn’t it chic!
Farncombe.