A hotel sitting room. A table in the centre. On it a telephone.
Two chairs at it, opposite one another. Behind it, the door. The
fireplace has a mirror in the mantelpiece.

A spinster Princess, hatted and gloved, is ushered in by the
hotel manager, spruce and artifically bland by professional
habit, but treating his customer with a condescending affability
which sails very close to the east wind of insolence.

THE MANAGER. I am sorry I am unable to accommodate Your Highness
on the first floor.

THE PRINCESS [very shy and nervous.] Oh, please don't mention it.
This is quite nice. Very nice. Thank you very much.

THE MANAGER. We could prepare a room in the annexe--

THE PRINCESS. Oh no. This will do very well.

She takes of her gloves and hat: puts them on the table; and sits
down.

THE MANAGER. The rooms are quite as good up here. There is less
noise; and there is the lift. If Your Highness desires anything,
there is the telephone--

THE PRINCESS. Oh, thank you, I don't want anything. The telephone
is so difficult: I am not accustomed to it.