That 's me, A perfect little actor. They dress me up, and put me on the stage, and I imitate what I 've seen real people do—'"
"But," he cried, "that 's true of all art, if you want to look at it that way. The painter—mimics life in colors. The sculptor—"
She spread her hands. "So much the worse for art. I know a motto for it, then: 'Monkey see; monkey do.' Hang that up in your library."
He puffed at his cigar, ostensibly to resuscitate it, but really to gain a moment in which to prepare a retort.
She did not wait for him. "I was tired of it," she went on, in a voice full of protest, emotion, scorn, and yearning. "Tired of being a monkey. I wanted a real life of my own—away from all you people that don't see anything except to imitate it, to write it, play the monkey with it. And when I found that I really could love Jack—that I had enough of the human being left in me for that—I saw my chance, while I was still young, if I could only get away somewhere, with him, where all the rest of you could n't come around and remind me that I was only a monkey, and spoil it all, and try to coax me back. That 's why I hid. I want to live." She threw her arms out at the sunny room. "Here. A real life. With a real man. And be happy. And I am. Never! You 'll never coax me back as long as I can have this. I 'm going to have a real life, with real work, real love—and babies—real babies—babies of my own." She
