Roger. But haven’t I written to you—often?
Suzanne. Often? Ten times. And then nothing but little insignificant notes at the bottom of someone else’s letter—the kind you’d write to a baby. I’m not a baby any longer: I’ve been thinking a lot these last six months; I’ve learned a heap of things.
Roger. What have you learned? (Suzanne leans against his shoulder and cries) Why, Suzanne, what’s wrong?
Suzanne. (Wiping her eyes and trying to laugh) And then I’ve worked—! Oh, how I worked! Piano, that horrid piano—I’m up to Schumann now, that’s proper enough, isn’t it?
Roger. Oh!
Suzanne. Shall I play you something of his?
Roger. Not now, later!
Suzanne. All right.—And I’ve learned so much!
Roger. You are attending Professor Bellac’s lectures, aren’t you? So he’s taken my place!
Suzanne. Yes, he’s been so nice! I love him, too.