_Stuart._ There are divorces and desertions in celibacy as well as in matrimony. Well, I love this woman; I don’t think she loves me,—though you never can tell with a clever one, and sometimes I think she is beginning to like me, because she—because she tries to make me believe she is worse than she is. She delights in making me think she’s a devil, which shows that she is a bit afraid of me. I’ve never said a word of my love to her, but she knows it as well as I do. But nobody else dreams of it. I don’t make my attentions so obvious that every one sees them, and so cause her embarrassment whenever I even come into the room. I don’t cut up rough if she talks or dances with other fellows. I simply try to be pleasant and useful enough to make her prefer my society to that of any other man. _Fred (sighing)._ Well, of course you are right, but—tell me what you think I ought to do. _Stuart (walking to desk and holding bell)._ What do you suppose would happen if I rang this? [_Rings._ _Fred._ That doesn’t answer my question. _Stuart._ I want to see if the bell won’t save me the trouble. _Enter_ POLLY, _l. d._ _Polly._ Did you ring, sir? _Stuart._ Yes, I want to find out if you told the truth about Miss Wortley’s domino? _Polly (embarrassed)._ Well, sir, Miss Wortley has two dominos, and I don’t know which she intends to wear first. _Stuart._ What is the other domino like? _Polly._ It’s blue with silver lace. _Stuart._ What will you charge me to wear the white and cardinal one this evening, leaving Miss Wortley only the blue and silver one? _Polly (eagerly)._ Oh, Mr. Stuart, that’s just what I’ve wanted to do, but haven’t dared! Please don’t tempt me. _Stuart._ Fudge! If you’ll do as I’ll tell you, you shall have a year’s wages to-morrow. _Polly._ Gracious!! _Stuart._ Is it a bargain? _Polly (eagerly)._ Yes, sir. What am I to do? _Stuart._ H’m. Can you write a good hand? _Polly._ Ask Mr. Stevens? _Stuart (reproachfully)._ Oh, Fred!! _Fred._ I don’t know what she means. _Polly._ I wrote that note to-day thanking you for the flowers: I write nearly all Miss Wortley’s notes. _Fred._ Bosh! [_During letter-writing he surreptitiously dives into inside pocket and produces glove, handkerchief, faded flowers, and letters tied with ribbon. Examines letters, and then crosses to mantel, tears them up, and throws them into fire._ _Stuart._ Good! It couldn’t be better. They’ll think it’s Miss Wortley’s hand-writing. Sit down at that desk and write as I dictate. _Polly._ Yes, sir. [_Sits at desk—business of letter-writing._