me.'

ALICE. 'Cosmo, you don't mean that I bore you too!'

He is pained. It is now he who boldly encircles her. But his words,
though well meant, are not so happy as his action. 'I love you,
mother; and _I_ don't think you're so yellow.'

ALICE, the belle of many stations, 'Yellow?' Her brain reels. 'Cosmo,
do you think me plain?'

COSMO, gallantly, 'No, I don't. I'm not one of the kind who judge
people by their looks. The soul, you know, is what I judge them by.'

ALICE. 'Plain? Me.'

COSMO, the comforter, 'Of course it's all right for girls to bother
about being pretty.' He lures her away from the subject. 'I can tell
you a funny thing about that. We had theatricals at Osborne one night,
and we played a thing called "The Royal Boots."'

ALICE, clapping her hands, '_I_ played in that, too, last year.'

COSMO. 'You?'

ALICE. 'Yes. Why shouldn't I?'

COSMO. 'But we did it for fun.'

ALICE. 'So did we.'