Scene—The Auditorium of the National Theatre. Present the customary throng. A performance on the stage is occupying the spectators' wrapt attention. Newly-married couple in stalls holding a discussion in undertones.
Angelina. I am so glad, dear, you did not get a book of the words. It will be such a capital exercise for my Italian. I find that I can understand every word.
Edwin (happy to have saved the expense of purchasing a translated libretto). Quite so, dear. You can tell me what they are doing.
Ang. Certainly, dear. Look, they are now having supper. You see, the heroine called for candles, and the waiter put them on the table. And now they are talking about things in general. And that is Armande. And don't you see Marguerite is ill.
Edwin. Yes; she is fainting in front of a window.
Ang. Exactly. Italian is so easy—almost like English. She gives him a flower, and he goes away. He says adieu, and then the curtain falls.
Edwin Was that in Italian too?
Ang. Don't be absurd. (They discuss things in general, until the curtain rises on the Second Act.) Look, it is the same scene. You see, they are engaged. She is making love to him.
Edwin. Is that why he is sitting in a chair with his back to the audience while Marguerite strokes his hair?
Ang. Yes. While she is stroking his hair she is saying how fond she is of him. And now he is telling her how fond he is of her.