But rather suddenly he says: "That's
arranged then. Half-past eleven. So good of you. Good-night!"
He replaces his cigar and strolls back to his companion, and in
a low voice says: "Pay up!" Then at a languid "Hullo, Charles!"
they turn to greet the two in their nook behind the screen.
CLARE has not moved, nor changed the direction of her gaze.
Suddenly she thrusts her hand into the, pocket of the cloak that
hangs behind her, and brings out the little blue bottle which,
six months ago, she took from MALISE. She pulls out the cork
and pours the whole contents into her champagne. She lifts the
glass, holds it before her--smiling, as if to call a toast, then
puts it to her lips and drinks. Still smiling, she sets the
empty glass down, and lays the gardenia flowers against her
face. Slowly she droops back in her chair, the drowsy smile
still on her lips; the gardenias drop into her lap; her arms
relax, her head falls forward on her breast. And the voices
behind the screen talk on, and the sounds of joy from the
supper-party wax and wane.

The waiter, ARNAUD, returning from the corridor, passes to his
service-table with a tall, beribboned basket of fruit. Putting
it down, he goes towards the table behind the screen, and sees.
He runs up to CLARE.

ARNAUD. Madame! Madame! [He listens for her breathing; then
suddenly catching sight of the little bottle, smells at it] Bon Dieu!

[At that queer sound they come from behind the screen--all four,
and look. The dark night bird says: "Hallo; fainted!" ARNAUD
holds out the bottle.]

LANGUID LORD. [Taking it, and smelling] Good God! [The woman bends
over CLARE, and lifts her hands; ARNAUD rushes to his service-table,
and speaks into his tube]

ARNAUD. The boss. Quick! [Looking up he sees the YOUNG MAN,
returning] 'Monsieur, elle a fui! Elle est morte'!

LANGUID LORD. [To the YOUNG MAN standing there aghast] What's this?
Friend of yours?

YOUNG MAN. My God! She was a lady. That's all I know about her.

LANGUID LORD. A lady!

[The blond and dark gentlemen have slipped from the room; and out
of the supper-party's distant laughter comes suddenly a long,
shrill: "Gone away!" And the sound of the horn playing the seven
last notes of the old song: "This day a stag must die!" From the
last note of all the sound fl