SIR GEOFFREY. Calm, serene, untroubled, with the conscience of a babe—one, two, three, he sleeps. He and I have had some rare times together. I've been roped to him on the Andes—he shot a tiger that was about to scrunch me—I rubbed his nose when it was frost-bitten. He saved my life—I saved his nose. I always maintain that the balance of gratitude is on his side—for where would he have been without his nose?
LADY TORMINSTER. You are absurd.
SIR GEOFFREY. Would you have married him without a nose?
LADY TORMINSTER. I might have.
SIR GEOFFREY. Now you know you wouldn't. You'd have been afraid of what people would say. And what would he have done when he became short-sighted, and had to wear glasses?
LADY TORMINSTER. My cigarette has gone out.
SIR GEOFFREY. [Jumping up and handing her the box.] Take another. Never re-light a cigarette—it's like dragging up the past. Here.
LADY TORMINSTER. I said only one.
SIR GEOFFREY. This is not the hour for inflexibility. The Medes and
Persians have all gone to bed.
[She takes the cigarette; he lights it for her.