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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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MRS.
CONNAGE
:
The
poor
boy
looks
so
miserable
every
time
he
comes
.
ROSALIND
:
That
was
one
of
those
romantic
,
pre-battle
affairs
.
They
're
all
wrong
.
MRS.
CONNAGE
:
(
Her
say
said
)
At
any
rate
,
make
us
proud
of
you
to-night
.
ROSALIND
:
Do
n't
you
think
I
'm
beautiful
?
MRS.
CONNAGE
:
You
know
you
are
.
(
From
down-stairs
is
heard
the
moan
of
a
violin
being
tuned
,
the
roll
of
a
drum
.
MRS.
CONNAGE
turns
quickly
to
her
daughter
.
)
MRS.
CONNAGE
:
Come
!
ROSALIND
:
One
minute
!
(
Her
mother
leaves
.
ROSALIND
goes
to
the
glass
where
she
gazes
at
herself
with
great
satisfaction
.
She
kisses
her
hand
and
touches
her
mirrored
mouth
with
it
.
Then
she
turns
out
the
lights
and
leaves
the
room
.
Silence
for
a
moment
.
A
few
chords
from
the
piano
,
the
discreet
patter
of
faint
drums
,
the
rustle
of
new
silk
,
all
blend
on
the
staircase
outside
and
drift
in
through
the
partly
opened
door
.
Bundled
figures
pass
in
the
lighted
hall
.
The
laughter
heard
below
becomes
doubled
and
multiplied
.
Then
some
one
comes
in
,
closes
the
door
,
and
switches
on
the
lights
.
It
is
CECELIA
.
She
goes
to
the
chiffonier
,
looks
in
the
drawers
,
hesitates
--
then
to
the
desk
whence
she
takes
the
cigarette-case
and
extracts
one
.
She
lights
it
and
then
,
puffing
and
blowing
,
walks
toward
the
mirror
.
)
CECELIA
:
(
In
tremendously
sophisticated
accents
)
Oh
,
yes
,
coming
out
is
such
a
farce
nowadays
,
you
know
.
One
really
plays
around
so
much
before
one
is
seventeen
,
that
it
's
positively
anticlimax
.
(
Shaking
hands
with
a
visionary
middle-aged
nobleman
.
)
Yes
,
your
grace
--
I
b
'
lieve
I
've
heard
my
sister
speak
of
you
.
Have
a
puff
--
they
're
very
good
.
They
're
--
they
're
Coronas
.
