Madame Guéret. My dear, I shall go my own way. See what we're suffering now in consequence of going yours. Here's Madame Nérisse. Then the play is over. [To her husband] You must go and look after the people at the supper table. I'll join you in a minute.
Guéret. All right.
He goes out.
Madame Nérisse. I've hardly ever been at such a successful party. I wanted to congratulate dear Thérèse, but she's gone to change her dress.
Madame Guéret [absently] So glad. Were you speaking of having a notice of it in your paper?
Madame Nérisse. Of your play! If I was going to notice it! I should think so! The photographs we had taken at the dress rehearsal are being developed. We shall have a wonderful description.
Madame Guéret [imploring] Could it be stopped?
Madame Nérisse. It's not possible! Just think how amazed the subscribers to Feminine Art would be if they found nothing in their paper about your lovely performance of Barberine, even if the editress of the paper hadn't taken a part in the play. If it only depended on me, perhaps I could find some way out—explain it in some way, just to please you. But then there's your charming Thérèse—one of our contributors. I can't tell you what a wonderful success she's had with her two stories, illustrated by herself. People adore her.
Madame Guéret. Nobody would know anything about it—
Madame Nérisse. Nobody know! There are at least ten people among your guests who will send descriptions of this party to the biggest morning papers, simply for the sake of getting their own names into print. If Feminine Art had nothing about it, it would be thought extremely odd, I assure you. [She turns to Féliat] Wouldn't it, Monsieur?