JANE (doing her best).  Positively shudder!

MELISANDE.  He meets Her at—­(she shudders)—­a subscription dance, or a tennis party—­(she shudders again) or—­at golf.  He calls upon her mother—­perhaps in a top hat—­perhaps (tragically) even in a bowler hat.

JANE.  A bowler hat!  One shudders.

MELISANDE.  Her mother makes tactful inquiries about his income—­discovers that he is a nice, steady young man—­and decides that he shall marry her daughter.  He is asked to come again, he is invited to parties; it is understood that he is falling in love with the daughter.  The rest of the family are encouraged to leave them alone together—­if the opportunity occurs, Jane. (Contemptuously) But, of course, only if it occurs.

JANE (awkwardly).  Yes, dear.

MELISANDE.  One day he proposes to her.

JANE (to herself ecstatically).  Oh!

MELISANDE.  He stutters out a few unbeautiful words which she takes to be a proposal.  She goes and tells Mother.  He goes and tells Father.  They are engaged.  They talk about each other as “my fiance.”  Perhaps they are engaged for months and months—­

JANE.  Years and years sometimes, Melisande.

MELISANDE.  For years and years—­and wherever they go, people make silly little jokes about them, and cough very loudly if they go into a room where the two of them are.  And then they get married at last, and everybody comes and watches them get married, and makes more silly jokes, and they go away for what they call a honeymoon, and they tell everybody—­they shout it out in the newspapers—­where they are going for their honeymoon; and then they come back and start talking about bread-sauce.  Oh, Jane, it’s horrible.

JANE.  Horrible, darling. (With a French air) But what would you?

MELISANDE (in a low thrilling voice).  What would I?  Ah, what would I,
Jane?

JANE.  Because you see, Sandy—­I mean Melisande—­you see, darling, this is the twentieth century, and—­

MELISANDE.  Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath my lattice window.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,
The helmet and the helmet feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
  As he rode down to Camelot.

And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung
  As he rode down to Camelot.

JANE.  I know, dear.  But of course they don’t nowadays.

MELISANDE.  And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage for him to wear in his helm, a rose—­perhaps just a rose.

JANE (awed).  No, Melisande, would you really?  Wave a lily hand to him?  (She waves one) I mean, wouldn’t it be rather—­you know.  Rather forward.

MELISANDE.  Forward!