Féliat. Pardon me, Madame, I know nothing about these things.
Madame Guéret. Well, we'll say no more about it.
Madame Nérisse. But what's the matter? You must have some very good reason for not wanting me to put in anything about your delightful party.
Madame Guéret. No——only——[Hesitating] Some of our family are country people, you know. It would take me too long to explain it all to you. It doesn't matter. [With a change of tone] Then honestly you think Thérèse has some little talent?
Madame Nérisse. Little talent! No, but very great talent. Haven't you read her two articles?
Madame Guéret. Oh, I? I belong to another century. In my days it would have been considered a very curious thing if a young girl wrote novels. My brother feels this too. By the way, I have not introduced my brother to you. Monsieur Féliat, of Evreux—Madame Nérisse, editress of Feminine Art. Madame Nérisse has been kind enough to help us with our little party. [To Madame Nérisse] Yes—you were speaking about—what was it—this story that Thérèse has written. No doubt your readers were indulgent to the work of a little amateur.
Madame Nérisse. I wish I could find professionals who'd do half as well. I'm perfectly certain the number her photograph is going to be in will have a good sale.
Féliat. You'll publish her photograph?
Madame Nérisse. In her dress as Kalekairi.
Madame Guéret. In her dress as Kalekairi!