During World War I, believing her fiancé to be dead, a young ballerina loses her job and is forced to turn to prostitution.
— How have we been living?
— What difference does it make, as long as we live.
— Where's the money coming from? Where are you getting it?
— Where do you think I've been getting it? I was trying to keep it from you, but... well, you know now.
— You did it for me...
— No I didn't! I'd a done it anyhow. C'est La Guerre. No jobs. No boys who want to marry you. Only men who want to kill a few hours, 'cause they know it may be their last.
— Good evening, Myra. It's very condescending of you to come here at all!
— She's very unhappy, Madame. Her fiance was called to the front.
— I'm not interested in troop movements.
— She was to be married in the morning.
— Nor in social events.
— Well, the whole world doesn't begin and end with a ballet.
— My world does! And while you are with me, so must your's!
Do people have to kill each other to — give them a heightened sense of life?
— This hateful war.
— Yes, I suppose it is. And yet there's — I don't know — a certain amount of excitement about it too. Round the corner of every second, the fascination of the unknown. We're both facing it, this instance.
— No, we face the unknown in peacetime too.
— You're rather matter-of-fact, aren't you?
— Yes. You're rather romantic, aren't you?