DORN. Fifty, did you say?

ARKADINA. I wore a perfectly magnificent dress; I am no fool when it
comes to clothes.

PAULINA. Constantine is playing again; the poor boy is sad.

SHAMRAEFF. He has been severely criticised in the papers.

MASHA. Seventy-seven.

ARKADINA. They want to attract attention to him.

TRIGORIN. He doesn't seem able to make a success, he can't somehow
strike the right note. There is an odd vagueness about his writings
that sometimes verges on delirium. He has never created a single living
character.

MASHA. Eleven.

ARKADINA. Are you bored, Peter? [A pause] He is asleep.

DORN. The Councillor is taking a nap.

MASHA. Seven. Ninety.

TRIGORIN. Do you think I should write if I lived in such a place as
this, on the shore of this lake? Never! I should overcome my passion,
and give my life up to the catching of fish.