Mopsa. All the difference, Alfred. I always pursued you about with reluctance and under protest. Being, as I supposed, descended from Kaia Fosli, and related to Rebecca West, it seemed so utterly the right thing to do. But I know now that I am nothing of the sort, and that if my real mother ever possessed such a thing as a Past at all, it was Plu-perfect. So heredity doesn't come in, and, rather than interfere between you and poor dear Spreta, I have decided to go right away and never see you again. I really mean it, this time!
[She opens her umbrella and runs off up the slope.
Alfred (takes up his hat sadly). Isn't this play going to end pessimistically after all, then? (Shudders.) Are we actually going to be—moral? (More hopefully.) After all, there's another Act left. There's a chance still!
[He follows hastily after Mopsa.
Motto for the President of the French Republic.—"Faure-warned, Faure-armed."
TOO MUCH.
(Pity the Sorrows of a poor Hunting Man!)