Dominica—Entirely, my dear daughter, with only this suggestion: That you remember now and again that your sainted father used to call you his swan. Think often of what it means to be a swan . . . gliding proudly . . . majestically . . . where the moon gleams on the mirror of the water . . . gliding always in that purple radiance . . . and never coming ashore. For when a swan walks, my daughter . . . when she waddles up the bank . . . then she painfully resembles another bird.
Alexandra—[Softly ironical at her own expense.] A goose?
Dominica—Almost, my girl. Natural history teaches that the swan is nothing but an aristocratic duck. That is why she must stay on the mirror of the water. She is a bird, but she may never fly. She knows a song, but she may never sing until she is about to die. Yes, dear, glide on the water . . . head high . . . stately silence . . . and the song—never! [There is a pause.]
Cæsar—[Entering at right.] Breakfast is served. [Hyacinth proffers Dominica his arm. Next goes Beatrice alone. Then Albert and Alexandra arm in arm. They exit. Cæsar strides majestically after them as]
THE CURTAIN FALLS
