(Mary rises from typewriter, takes off her sleeve-protectors and smoothes out her skirt.)
Johnson. (Announcing) Countess dee Beauree-en——
(The Countess enters from door upper L. She is a very smart-looking girl of about twenty-six or twenty-seven, typically French in manner and does not speak a word of English. He exits.)
Mary. (To Countess) How do you do?
Countess. (Advancing to her) Mam’selle Martin?
Mary. Oh, no, I’m Miss Grayson, Mr. Martin’s secretary.
Countess. (Blankly) Sec-ree-taree?
Mary. I’m sorry, but it’s quite impossible for you to see Mr. Martin. He is confined to the house with a severe attack of gout. If you will write him I will see that he gets your letter. You can address him here instead of the office; while he is ill I come here every day for the mail.
Countess. Pardon, mais je ne comprends pas—je ne parle pas l’anglais. Vous parlez Français peut-être?