“The one that has a dash of electricity in it.” “A Daiquerai!” he affirmed. “Right.” “Well, that will do to begin with.—Oh, yes, wine.” “Nothing sweet,” she warned him. “A Sauterne, then?” “That will be nice,” she said. He gave the order, and when he had finished turned to her. “You know,” he said, “it always makes me feel reckless to order wine. I’m always sure that I’m not going to have enough left to tip the waiter.” “I’m glad you feel that way,” she said. “It’s no fun to dine with people who are blasé about ordering wine—unless you can feel wickedly extravagant about it, you might just as well drink water. The thrill is all in the idea, anyway. I think wine is a much overrated institution—so far as its effects go.... I ordered a liqueur once, a beautiful purple thing I had just discovered—I forget the name of it; I ordered it, not to drink, but just to look at—and when the man I was dining with called my attention to my neglect, and I explained, he was outraged!... But I wish they would bring the little fishes—I shan’t neglect _them_.” “It’s nice,” he said, “to be able to think and talk about things that don’t matter.” “Such as what?” “Such as little fishes, and poetry. I’ve been so dreadfully serious-minded for a long time.—Is Gregory going to put on ‘The Land of Heart’s Desire’?” “He hasn’t decided. If he does—” “If he does, you must play Mary. It won’t be Yeats’s Mary, but it will be something very exciting, if you play it.” “I hope he’ll let me.” “Do you know ‘On Baile’s Strand’?” “He’s thinking of doing that, too. I haven’t read it. But I hear there’s nothing in it for me.” “Oh, yes, there is! There’s the part of the young prince. It wouldn’t be a half bad idea. You’re quite as much a boy as a girl. You’d be a very striking young prince.” “Thank you!” “However, I was thinking of another part for you—the part of the warrior-queen that the two kings talk about. You remember?” “No.” “She doesn’t actually appear in the play. But she ought to. I’d like to write you a play about her.” “Tell me about her!” “She fights like a man, and bears a love-child to a soldier-king—and then makes war on him. He is speaking about her afterward, in Yeats’s play, and he says to the older king: “_You have never seen her—ah! Conchobar, had you seen her With that high, laughing, turbulent head of hers Thrown backward, and the bowstring at her ear, Or sitting at the fire with these grave eyes Full of good counsel as it were with wine, Or when love ran through all the lineaments Of her wild body...._” She drank in the lines eagerly, and when he paused she looked at him gratefully. “I’d like to do a part like that,” she said. The cocktails came, but she pushed hers aside. “Tell me some more about her. She loves and hates the same man? Does he understand that—her lover, I mean.”