KATE. A chance to decide between you.
NORWOOD. You've decided that, Kate. You've had a year to think about it in, and you've decided. We love each other; you're coming away with me; that's all settled. Only . . . what the deuce is he up to?
KATE (sitting down and talking to herself). You're quite right about my not knowing him. . . . How one rushed into marriage in those early days of the war—knowing nothing about each other. And then they come back, and even the little one thought one did know is different. . . . I suppose he feels the same about me.
NORWOOD (to himself). Damn him!
KATE (after a pause). Well, Cyril?
NORWOOD (looking sharply round at her). Well?
KATE. We haven't got very long.
NORWOOD (looking at his watch). He really means to come back—in five minutes?
KATE. You heard him say so.
NORWOOD (going up to her and speaking eagerly). What's the matter with slipping out now? You've got a hat here. We can slip out quietly. He won't hear us. He'll come back and find us gone—well, what can he do? Probably he'll hang about for a bit and then go to his club. We'll have a bit of dinner; ring up your maid; get her to meet you with some things, and go off by the night mail. Scotland—anywhere you like. Let the whole business simmer down a bit. We don't want any melodramatic eighteenth-century nonsense.