WAITER. Thank you, Signore. But as I was saying, Signore, delicacy, purity.... You think I do not understand such sentiments. Alas, Signore, beneath the humblest shirt-front there beats a heart. And if the Signore's sentiments are too much for him, I have a niece. Eighteen years old, and what eyes, what forms! ALBERTO. Stop, stop. Respect my feelings, Waiter, as well as the ears of the young lady (_he points towards the glass doors_). Remember she is an American. (_The Waiter, bows and goes into the hotel_.) SIDNEY DOLPHIN _and_ MISS AMY TOOMIS _come out together on to the terrace._ MISS AMY _supports a well-shaped head on one of the most graceful necks that ever issued from Minneapolis. The eyes are dark, limpid, ingenuous; the mouth expresses sensibility. She is twenty-two and the heiress of those ill-gotten Toomis millions_. SIDNEY DOLPHIN _has a romantic aristocratic appearance. The tailoring of_ 1830 _would suit him. Balzac would have described his face as_ plein de poésie. _In effect he does happen to be a poet. His two volumes of verse, "Zeotrope and 'Trembling Ears," have been recognised by intelligent critics as remarkable. How far they are poetry nobody, least of all Dolphin himself, is certain. They may be merely the ingenious products of a very cultured and elaborate brain. Mere curiosities; who knows? His age is twenty-seven. They sit down at one of the little iron tables_, ALBERTO _they do not see; the shadow of the trees conceals him. For his part, he is too much absorbed in savouring his own despair to pay any attention to the newcomers. There is a long, uncomfortable silence_. DOLPHIN _assumes the Thinker's mask--the bent brow, the frown, the finger to the forehead_, AMY _regards this romantic gargoyle with some astonishment. Pleased with her interest in him_, DOLPHIN _racks his brains to think of some way of exploiting this curiosity to his own advantage; but he is too shy to play any of the gambits which his ingenuity suggests_. AMY _makes a social effort and speaks, in chanting Middle Western tones._ AMY. It's been a wonderful day, hasn't it? DOLPHIN (_starting, as though roused from profoundest thought_). Yes, yes, it has. AMY. You don't often get it as fine as this in England, I guess. DOLPHIN. Not often. AMY. Nor do we over at home. DOLPHIN. So I should suppose. (_Silence. A spasm of anguish crosses_ DOLPHIN'S _face; then he reassumes the old Thinker's mask._ AMY _looks at him for a little longer, then, unable to suppress her growing curiosity, she says with a sudden burst of childish confidence:_) AMY. It must be wonderful to be able to think as hard as you do, Mr. Dolphin. Or are you sad about something? DOLPHIN (_looks up, smiles, and blushes; a spell has been broken_). The finger at the temple, Miss Toomis, is not the barrel of a revolver. AMY. That means you're not specially sad about anything. Just thinking. DOLPHIN. Just thinking. AMY. What about?