CINDERELLA. Next.
(A woman of 35 comes forward. She is dejected, thin-lipped, and unlovable.)
MARION (tossing her head). You’re surprised to see me, I daresay.
CINDERELLA (guardedly). I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you.
MARION (glancing at the remaining occupant of the bench). Is that man sleeping? Who is he? I don’t know him.
CINDERELLA. He’s sleeping. What can I do for you?
MARION (harshly). Nothing, I daresay. I’m at Catullo’s Buildings. Now they’re turning me out. They say I’m not respectable.
CINDERELLA (enlightened). You’re—that woman?
MARION (defiantly). That’s me.