i beg your pardon. i've been enthralled with your photographs for years. when the countess hinted that you might like to meet me -- he never explained why -- i was ready to paint for him free of charge. and now i had to go and spoil it.
oh, sissy. i am sorry about all the fuss.
i apologize.
it is the measure of western civilization that it can encompass in harmony, balance off, as it were, such divergent masterworks as a midsummer night's dream and the american dream, as the dome of the sistine chapel and the ceiling of the paris opera.
what's the matter?
here. i'll turn down the air conditioner.
what are you doing?
but i don't want you to leave. please stay. we can go to dinner. i owe you a dinner. and tonight.  we can.  really make love.
why? why do you have to go?
extraordinary!
oh, you! i'm not talking about her hands. they're difficult to ignore, i confess, but i'm speaking of her whole being. her whole being is extraordinary. the way she talks, for example. she's so articulate.
countess. i'm really in a dither. she's turned my head.
i think she's disappointed that i'm not more, ah, sort of atavistic. she's got some naive, sentimental notions about indians. i'm sure she liked me, though; but.  then she left town.
how does she like what in bed?
well.  er.
oh, we didn't get it all the way on.
i suppose it was mine. yes, it definitely was my fault.
if we ivy leaguers aren't earthy enough to suit you hillbillies, at least we don't go around indulging in racist terms such as 'chink.' next thing i know, you'll be calling me 'chief.'
what guy?