BODIE (_indignant_). That is a little too much. You know quite well
I allow no one to touch her.
(CINDERELLA _leaves him and gazes in irritation at the
statue_.)
CINDERELLA. What is it about the woman?
BODIE (_in his heat forgetting the policeman_). She is the glory of
glories.
CINDERELLA (_who would be willowy if she were long enough_). She’s
thick.
BODIE. Her measurements are perfection. All women long to be like
her, but none ever can be.
CINDERELLA (_insisting_). I suppose that’s the reason she has that
snigger on her face.
BODIE. That is perhaps the smile of motherhood. Some people think
there was once a baby in her arms.
CINDERELLA (_with a new interest in Venus_). Her own?
BODIE. I suppose so.
CINDERELLA. A married woman then?
BODIE (_nonplussed_). Don’t ask trivial questions.
CINDERELLA (_generously_). It was clever of you to make her.
BODIE. I didn’t make her. I was—forestalled. Some other artist
chappie did it. (_He likes his little maid again._) She was dug
up, Cinderella, after lying hidden in the ground for more than a
thousand years.
CINDERELLA. And the baby gone?
BODIE (_snapping_). Yes.
CINDERELLA. If I had lost my baby I wouldn’t have been found with
that pleased look on my face, not in a thousand years.