_It is night on the terrace outside the Hotel Cimarosa. Part of the garden façade of the hotel is seen at the back of the stage--a bare white wall, with three French windows giving on to balconies about ten feet from the ground, and below them, leading from the terrace to the lounge, a double door of glass, open now, through which a yellow radiance streams out into the night. On the paved terrace stand two or three green iron tables and chairs. To the left a mass of dark foliage, ilex and cypress, in the shadow of which more tables and chairs are set. At the back to the left a strip of sky is visible between the corner of the hotel and the dark trees, blue and starry, for it is a marvellous June evening. Behind the trees the ground slopes steeply down and down to an old city in the valley below, of whose invisible presence you are made aware by the sound of many bells wafted up from a score of slender towers in a sweet and melancholy discord that seems to mourn the passing of each successive hour. When the curtain rises the terrace is almost deserted; the hotel dinner is not yet over. A single guest_, COUNT ALBERTO TIRETTA, _is discovered, sitting in a position of histrionic despair at one of the little green tables. A waiter stands respectfully sympathetic at his side_, ALBERTO _is a little man with large lustrous eyes and a black moustache, about twenty-five years of age. He has the pathetic charm of an Italian street-boy with an organ--almost as pretty and sentimental as Murillo's little beggars._ ALBERTO (_making a florid gesture with his right hand and with his left covering his eyes_). Whereupon, Waiter (_he is reciting a tale of woes_), she slammed the door in my face. (_He brings down his gesticulating right hand with a crash on to the table_.) WAITER. In your face, Signore? Impossible! ALBERTO. Impossible, but a fact. Some more brandy, please; I am a little weary. (_The waiter uncorks the bottle he has been holding under his arm and fills Alberto's glass._) WAITER. That will be one lira twenty-five, Signore. ALBERTO (_throwing down a note_). Keep the change. WAITER (_bowing_). Thank you, Signore. But if I were the Signore I should beat her. (_He holds up the Cognac bottle and by way of illustration slaps its black polished flanks._) ALBERTO. Beat her? But I tell you I am in love with her. WAITER. All the more reason, then, Signore. It will be not only a stern disciplinary duty, but a pleasure as well; oh, I assure you, Signore, a pleasure. ALBERTO. Enough, enough. You sully the melancholy beauty of my thoughts. My feelings at this moment are of an unheard-of delicacy and purity. Respect them, I beg you. Some more brandy, please. WAITER (_pouring out the brandy_). Delicacy, purity.... Ah, believe me, Signore ... That will be one lira twenty-five. ALBERTO (_throwing down another note with the same superbly aristocratic gesture_). Keep the change.