Mrs. Denham.
No—not well.
Fitzgerald.
You know I painted her portrait (looks at lighted end of cigarette), portrait (leans back in his chair, replaces cigarette in his mouth, and puffs again. Then putting his hands behind his head, he stretches out his legs, and looks at the ceiling), so I knew her like my own sister. (Puff.) She was a pretty little devil (puff), awfully aristocratic, mind you, vulgar, of course, an'—an' poor refined little Smith just didn't drop his H's. (Puffs, chuckles to himself.) Yes, she was a born jade. (Puff.) I—I liked her awfully. (Puff.)
Mrs. Denham.
You seem to like every one awfully.
Fitzgerald.
(with fervour, sitting up in his chair, and flinging away his half-smoked cigarette) So I do. I enjoy the Human Comedy. Now you don't enjoy the Human Comedy a bit.
Mrs. Denham.
It comes too near me.