_Stuart (taking out cigar-case)._ How that poor fellow does carry his heart in view! (_Takes match from desk._) No wonder Miss Wortley keeps hers to herself, with such an example! [_Strikes match._ _Enter_ POLLY, _l. d._, _carrying black domino and lace mask_. _Stuart._ Hello! One minute, please. Whose domino is that? _Polly (halting)._ I mustn’t tell, sir. _Stuart._ No, of course not. Quite right. (_Tosses away match and jingles coins in his pocket._) Perhaps, though, you can tell me to whom you are carrying it. _Polly (coming down)._ Perhaps I might, sir. _Stuart (taking out money)._ Well? _Polly._ I was carrying it to Mrs. Van Tromp’s room, sir. _Stuart (giving money)._ Thank you. (_Takes domino and mask from her._) Mr. Stuart told you Miss Wortley wanted you to come at once to her, and so you left these in this room—understand? (_Gives more money_) Now be off to your mistress. _Polly._ Yes, sir. [_Exit_ POLLY _l. d._ _Stuart._ It’s better to be born lucky than rich. (_Pats domino tenderly, and arranges it neatly in chair c._) You’re luckier, though, for you belong to the dearest and most heartless woman in this world. (_Looks at mask._) And you! She doesn’t need you to mask her feelings, confound and bless her inscrutable face! You’ll be pressing against it ere long. (_Kisses mask._) Take that to her. _Mrs. V. T. (outside)._ No, I sent Polly for my domino, but she hasn’t brought it. _Stuart._ Speaking of angels— And she mustn’t discover that I know. [_Hurriedly seizes mask and domino and tosses them behind curtains of bay window; then strikes match as if about to light cigar._ MRS. VAN TROMP _appears at b. d. and looks in_. _Mrs. V. T._ Shall it be a cigar or my society? “Under which king, Bezonian? Speak or die.” _Stuart (throwing match in fire)._ That goes without saying. The cigar is my slave; I am Mrs. Van Tromp’s! _Mrs. V. T._ Was that impromptu? _Stuart._ Coined for the occasion, and needing only the approval of your majesty to make it gold in my eyes. [_Bows._ _Mrs. V. T._ I am too good a queen to help stamp worthless money, and that’s what a compliment is. As the French say, “Fine words cost nothing and are worth just what they cost.” _Stuart._ Anglisé in “Fine words butter no parsnips.” You know, I’ve always wanted to send that proverb to Delmonico. He takes something uneatable, and by giving it a sauce and a high-sounding French title, deludes the public into ordering it. You pay five cents for the basis, ten for the sauce, and the other thirty-five for the French, which no man can understand or pronounce. _Mrs. V. T._ He didn’t serve this evening’s dinner.