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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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You
do
n't
smoke
?
What
a
pity
!
The
king
does
n't
allow
it
,
I
suppose
.
Yes
,
I
'll
dance
.
(
So
she
dances
around
the
room
to
a
tune
from
down-stairs
,
her
arms
outstretched
to
an
imaginary
partner
,
the
cigarette
waving
in
her
hand
.
)
SEVERAL
HOURS
LATER
The
corner
of
a
den
down-stairs
,
filled
by
a
very
comfortable
leather
lounge
.
A
small
light
is
on
each
side
above
,
and
in
the
middle
,
over
the
couch
hangs
a
painting
of
a
very
old
,
very
dignified
gentleman
,
period
1860
.
Outside
the
music
is
heard
in
a
fox-trot
.
ROSALIND
is
seated
on
the
lounge
and
on
her
left
is
HOWARD
GILLESPIE
,
a
vapid
youth
of
about
twenty-four
.
He
is
obviously
very
unhappy
,
and
she
is
quite
bored
.
GILLESPIE
:
(
Feebly
)
What
do
you
mean
I
've
changed
.
I
feel
the
same
toward
you
.
ROSALIND
:
But
you
do
n't
look
the
same
to
me
.
GILLESPIE
:
Three
weeks
ago
you
used
to
say
that
you
liked
me
because
I
was
so
blasé
,
so
indifferent
--
I
still
am
.
ROSALIND
:
But
not
about
me
.
I
used
to
like
you
because
you
had
brown
eyes
and
thin
legs
.
GILLESPIE
:
(
Helplessly
)
They
're
still
thin
and
brown
.
You
're
a
vampire
,
that
's
all
.
