MME. DE CÉRAN. I shall keep him in mind if he keeps me in mind.—You must set to work on your report at once. ROGER. Immediately! MME. DE CÉRAN. Did you leave cards for the Speaker of the House? ROGER. Yes, this morning, and for General de Briais and Mme. de Vielfond. MME. DE CÉRAN. Good! It must be known that you have returned. I’ll have a paragraph sent to the papers.—And one thing more: those articles you sent back from the East were very good. But I noticed with astonishment a tendency toward—what shall I say?—imagination, “fine” writing; descriptions, irrelevancies—even poetry—(_Reproachfully_) Alfred de Musset, my son! DUCHESS. Yes, the article was most interesting: you must be more careful. MME. DE CÉRAN. The Duchess is joking, my dear. But be careful about poetry; never do it again! You are concerned with serious subjects; you must be serious yourself. ROGER. But I had no idea, Mother!—How can you tell when an article is serious? DUCHESS. (_Holding up a pamphlet_) When the pages aren’t cut! MME. DE CÉRAN. Your Aunt exaggerates, but take my advice: no more poetry!—And now, dinner at six. You have an hour to work on your report. I shan’t keep you any longer. Go to work, my dear. DUCHESS. Just a moment! Now that this tender and affecting scene is over let us talk business, if you please. What about Suzanne? ROGER. Oh, the dear child! Where is she? DUCHESS. Attending a course of lectures on Comparative Literature. ROGER. Suzanne?! DUCHESS. Yes, Bellac’s course. ROGER. Bellac, who is he? DUCHESS. One of this winter’s crop! The season’s fad in scholars. A gallant knight from the Normal School, who makes love to the ladies, is made love to by them—and consequently makes a comfortable living. The Princess Okolitch, who is mad about him, like all the old ladies, conceived the idea of having him deliver a course of lectures in her salon, with literature as an excuse, and gossip as a result. It appears that your pupil, having seen all these grand ladies smitten with this young, amiable, and loquacious genius, has followed in the footsteps of her elders. MME. DE CÉRAN. It is no use, Duchess—— DUCHESS. I beg your pardon; Roger is her tutor and he ought to know everything! ROGER. But what does all this mean, Aunt? DUCHESS. It means that Suzanne is in love with this gentleman; now do you understand? ROGER. Suzanne! That child! Nonsense! DUCHESS. It doesn’t take so long for a child to change into a woman, you know. ROGER. Suzanne! DUCHESS. Well, at least that is what your mother says. MME. DE CÉRAN. I say that that young lady is openly courting favor with a man much too serious to marry her, but gallant enough to amuse her, and to have this going on under my own roof,—though it isn’t as yet scandalous—is decidedly improper. DUCHESS. (_To_ ROGER) Do you hear that?