Bellac. Here!—I beg your pardon! The conservatory is usually better lighted—I don’t know why, this evening—(He walks toward her)
Mme. de Céran. (Aside to the Duchess) Lucy!—But what about Suzanne? I’m sure I can’t make it out!
Duchess. Wait a while; we’ll soon see.
Lucy. But, M. Bellac, what do you mean by this? And your letter this morning? Why did you write me?
Bellac. Because I wanted to talk with you, my dear Miss Lucy. Is this the first time we have left the others and talked, and exchanged ideas?
Paul. (Struggling to control his laughter) Oh, exchange ideas! I never heard it called that before!
Bellac. Surrounded as I am here, what other means had I of speaking with you, alone?
Lucy. What other means? You might simply offer me your arm and leave the room with me. I’m no French girl!
Bellac. But you are in France.
Lucy. I may be in France, but I still do as I please. I have no use for secrets, much less such mysteries as this! You disguise your handwriting, you did not sign your name, you even wrote on pink paper—how French you are!