Julia. You are very kind, Mr. Mandeville, but it is a matter of indifference to me where Lord Aprile goes.
Mandeville. Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned this to you?
Julia. [Annoyed.] It does not make the least difference. In fact, I am delighted to think that you are taking Cyril out into the world. He is wretched in this house. [With heroism.] I am glad to think that he knows anyone so interesting and clever and beautiful as Sarah Sparrow. I suppose she would be considered beautiful?
Mandeville. [With a profound glance.] One can forget her—sometimes.
Julia. [Looking down.] Perhaps—when I am as old as she is—I shall be prettier than I am at present.
Mandeville. You always said you liked my voice. We never see anything of each other now. I once thought that—well—that you might like me better. Are you sure you are not angry with me because I am taking Cyril to this rehearsal?
Julia. Quite sure. Why should I care where Cyril goes? I only wish that I, too, might go to the theatre to-night. What part do you play? And what do you sing? A serenade?
Mandeville. [Astounded.] Yes. How on earth did you guess that? The costume is, of course, picturesque, and that is the great thing in an opera. A few men can sing—after a fashion—but to find the right clothes to sing in—that shows the true artist.
Julia. And Sarah; does she look her part?
Mandeville. Well, I do not like to say anything against her, but she is not quite the person I should cast for la Marquise de la Perdrigonde. Ah! if you were on the stage, Miss de Trappe! You have just the exquisite charm, the grace, the majesty of bearing which, in the opinion of those who have never been to Court, is the peculiar distinction of women accustomed to the highest society.