GEORGE. You can't pretend that we haven't been happy together. I've—I've been a good pal to you, eh? We—we suit each other, old girl.
OLIVIA. Do we?
GEORGE. Of course we do.
OLIVIA. I wonder. When two people of our age think of getting married, one wants to be very sure that there is real community of ideas between them. Whether it is a comparatively trivial matter, like the right colour for a curtain, or some very much more serious question of conduct which arises, one wants to feel that there is some chance of agreement between husband and wife.
GEORGE. We—we love each other, old girl.
OLIVIA. We do now, yes. But what shall we be like in five years' time? Supposing that after we have been married five years, we found ourselves estranged from each other upon such questions as Dinah's future, or the decorations of the drawing-room, or even the advice to give to a friend who had innocently contracted a bigamous marriage? How bitterly we should regret then our hasty plunge into a matrimony which was no true partnership, whether of tastes, or of ideas, or even of consciences! (With a sigh) Ah me!
GEORGE (nastily). Unfortunately for your argument, Olivia, I can answer you out of your own mouth. You seem to have forgotten what you said this morning in the case of—er—young Strange.
OLIVIA (reproachfully). Is it quite fair, George, to drag up what was said this morning?
GEORGE. You've brought it on yourself.
OLIVIA. I? . . . Well, and what did I say this morning?