ISOBEL. My dear, she died eighteen years ago, that child.
ROYCE (smiling). Then introduce me to her mother.
ISOBEL (gravely, with a smile behind it). Mr. Royce, let me introduce you to my mother—thirty-eight, poor dear. (Bowing) How do you do, Mr. Royce? I have heard my daughter speak of you.
ROYCE. How do you do, Mrs. Blayds? I’m glad [262]to meet you, because I once asked your daughter to marry me.
ISOBEL. Ah, don’t, don’t!
ROYCE (cheerfully). Do you know what she said? She said, like all properly brought up girls, “You must ask my mother.” So now I ask her—“Isobel’s mother, will you marry me?”
ISOBEL. Oh!
ROYCE. Isobel was quite right. I was too old for her. Look, I’m grey. And then I’ve got a bit of rheumatism about me somewhere—I really want a nurse. Isobel said you were a born nurse.... Isobel’s mother, will you marry me?
ISOBEL. I’m afraid to. I shall be so jealous.
ROYCE. Jealous! Of whom?