Nina. What do you think of me? I’m always dying to know, and I’m never sure.
Russ. What do you think of me?
Nina. I think you’re magnificent and terrible and ruthless.
Russ (with amicable sincerity). Oh, no, I’m not. But you are.
Nina. How? When? When was I ruthless last?
Russ. You’re always ruthless in your appetite for life. You want to taste everything, enjoy all the sensations there are. This evening you like intensely to sit very quiet on the floor; but last night you were mad about dancing and eating and drinking. You couldn’t be still. Tomorrow night it’ll be something else. There’s no end to what you want, and what you want tremendously, and what you’ve jolly well got to have. You aren’t a woman. You’re a hundred women.
Nina. Oh! Hughie. How well you understand!
Russ. Yes, don’t I?
Nina (tenderly). Do I make you very unhappy? Hughie, you mustn’t tell me I make you unhappy. I couldn’t bear it.
Russ. Then I won’t.