Madame Laroque. What! in the broiling sun?
Bev. The roses do not fear the sun. Why should the lilies?
Ladies [all courtesey.] Oh, how pretty.
Bev. Yes, rather neat, I think. [To Marguerite] Mademoiselle, may I hope for the honor?
Mar. Thank you. Despite your pretty speech, I confess to a fear of waltzing in the sun. But I'll play for you with pleasure.
[Goes towards Piano, R.
Bev. [Aside to her.] Always cruel. [To M'lle Helouin,] Mademoiselle, may I request the pleasure?
Mlle Helouin. Oh! certainly.
Bev. [Aside to her.] Ever kind.
[Marguerite plays—they waltz and gradually disappear.