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 don't look the same to me.
GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I was so blase, so indifferent--I still am.
ROSALIND: But not about me.