Hyacinth—Perhaps Alexandra is
Beatrice—She is perfectly beautiful and clever and self-possessed . . . her poor father described her perfectly when he called her his swan. "My proud, white swan!". . . And she is just like that,—majestic, silent, earnest . . . holds her head high . . . conducts herself irreproachably. Yet Albert is utterly indifferent to her. It's disheartening!
Hyacinth—Beatrice, it is not like you to lose control of yourself like this.
Beatrice—[Nervously.] I know, but I can't help it. This is my last great battle, not mine alone but our family's. Now or never. Well, I mean to win if I ruin myself in the attempt. [Symphorosa speaks in the doorway.]
Symphorosa—He is sleeping peacefully.
Beatrice—-Thank you, dear. [Symphorosa vanishes.]
Hyacinth—You mustn't agitate yourself like this. What will be, will be. And if it isn't successful this time, it will be next time.
Beatrice—When? Albert is thirty-five. And Alexandra isn't getting younger.
Hyacinth—How old is she?
Beatrice—. . . and twenty.
Hyacinth—What . . . and twenty?
Beatrice—Nothing. Just "and twenty."
