"Why then go out of the door to come in at the window?—especially if you smash it! An English arrangement of a French piece is a pretty woman with her back turned."
"Do you really want to keep her?" Sherringham asked of Madame Carré—quite as if thinking for a moment that this after all might be possible.
She bent her strange eyes on him. "No, you're all too queer together. We couldn't be bothered with you and you're not worth it."
"I'm glad it's 'together' that we're queer then—we can console each other."
"If you only would; but you don't seem to! In short I don't understand you—I give you up. But it doesn't matter," said the old woman wearily, "for the theatre's dead and even you, ma toute-belle, won't bring it to life. Everything's going from bad to worse, and I don't care what becomes of you. You wouldn't understand us here and they won't understand you there, and everything's impossible, and no one's a whit the wiser, and it's not of the least consequence. Only when you raise your arms lift them just a little higher," Madame Carré added.
"My mother will be happier chez nous" said Miriam, throwing her arms straight up and giving them a noble tragic movement.
"You won't be in the least in the right path till your mother's in despair."
"Well, perhaps we can bring that about even in London," Sherringham patiently laughed.
"Dear Mrs. Rooth—she's great fun," Mr. Dashwood as imperturbably dropped.
Miriam transferred the dark weight of her gaze to him as if she were practising. "You won't upset her, at any rate." Then she stood with her beautiful and fatal mask before her hostess. "I want to do the modern too. I want to do le drame, with intense realistic effects."