BELLA. I'm scared to death. [_Laughing nervously._] I ain't going to
write the article myself, you know. It's my sister's husband's
friend--she's real literary enough! She's got a typewriter.
GEORGIANA. One can't do everything in this world, Bella, and you must be
content with being a real _artiste_ in your own profession.
BELLA. Yes, I will say without boasting, so to speak, I don't believe
there's a soul in New York who can make hair go further and wear less,
than me! [_Laughs heartily._] What's this room? Of course it's one of
them Louis, I suppose, ain't it? [_Looks around the room._] Let me see,
is it Louis Eleventimes? I saw Henry Irving in that, it was fine!
GEORGIANA. No, Bella, Henry Irving has never been in this room, and it's
Louis XVI.
BELLA. Oh, of course! [_Writing._] How well you're looking, Miss
Georgiana. Look to me kinder as if you thought good news was in the
wind!
[_She glances at her surreptitiously, but down again quickly,
frightened._
GEORGIANA. Why, Bella?
BELLA. Oh, that's just my idea, that's all. What might this picture be?
Shall we say--er--er--Michael Ange?
GEORGIANA.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145