LADY TORMINSTER. You should get married.
SIR GEOFFREY. [With a sudden burst of passion.] You say that—you!
[He starts back, ashamed, and hangs his head. LADY TORMINSTER throws a quick glance at him, then looks ahead of her, puffing quietly at her cigarette.
LADY TORMINSTER. [Quietly.] So that is why you are going?
SIR GEOFFREY. [With a great sigh of relief.] Now, that really is fine of you! Every other woman in the world would have seized that chance for a melodramatic exit. "Good-night, Sir Geoffrey; I must go to my husband." "Good-night, Lady Torminster." A clasp of the hand—a hot tear—mine—on your wrist. But you sit there. Splendid!
LADY TORMINSTER. I ask you again—is that truly why you are going?
SIR GEOFFREY. Well, yes, that's the fact. I apologise humbly—it's so conventional. Isn't it?
LADY TORMINSTER. I suppose it's difficult for human beings to invent new situations.
SIR GEOFFREY. You've known it, of course, all the time; you've known it ever since Jack brought me to you, the day after you were engaged. And that's nine years ago. It's the usual kind of fatality.
LADY TORMINSTER. These things happen.