The living room of a summer cottage in Camelot, Maine. A pretty woman of between twenty-five and thirty-five is sitting in a big chair in the lamplight darning socks. She is Mrs. Arthur B. Robinson—or, to give her her own name, Guenevere. She is dressed in a light summer frock, and with her feet elevated on a settle there is revealed a glimpse of slender silk-clad ankles. It is a pleasant summer evening, and, one might wonder why so attractive a woman should be sitting at home darning her husband's socks, there being so many other interesting things to do in this world. The girl standing in the doorway, smiling amusedly, seems to wonder at it too. The girl's name is Vivien Smith.
VIVIEN. Hello, Gwen!
GUENEVERE. Hello, Vivien! Come in.
VIVIEN. I'm just passing by.
GUENEVERE. Come in and console me for a minute or two, anyway. I'm a widow at present.
VIVIEN. (enters and lounges against the mantelpiece) Arthur gone to
New York again?
GUENEVERE. Yes, for over Sunday. And I'm lonely.
VIVIEN. You don't seem to mind. Think of a woman being that happy darning her husband's socks!
GUENEVERE. Stay here and talk to me—unless you've something else on.
It's been ages since I've seen you.
VIVIEN. I'm afraid I have got something else on, Gwen—I'll give you one guess.