(She turns back suddenly at the door) Oh! Perhaps later on, when the
men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you might join me, with your
Uncle Henry--if the opportunity occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of
course.
[She goes.
JANE (coming back to the sofa). Poor Aunt Mary! It always seems so
queer that one's mother and aunts and people should have had their
romances too.
MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and subscription
dances and wearing tight shoes?
JANE (awkwardly). Well, no, darling, not romance of course, but you
know what I mean.
MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace little story which mother has
just told us, and compare it with any of the love-stories of history.
Isn't it pitiful, Jane, that people should be satisfied now with so
little?
JANE. Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don't think Aunt Mary--
MELISANDE. I am not blaming Mother. It is the same almost everywhere
nowadays. There is no romance left.
JANE. No, darling. Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I do
agree with you. It is very sad. Somehow there is no--(she searches for
the right word)--no _romance_ left.
MELISANDE. Just think of the average marriage. It makes one shudder.
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