SIR GEOFFREY. Quite. There are moments when I am unpleasantly volcanic.
LADY TORMINSTER. Then I tell you the best thing to do. Don't take your trunks; just go up with a bag. Leave a note that you'll come back on Tuesday. Then write from town and say you're prevented.
SIR GEOFFREY. That's a good idea—yes, that's much better.
LADY TORMINSTER. And, if you find that you really cannot come back—
SIR GEOFFREY. Exactly; you'll forward my goods and chattels. And old Jack will ascribe it all to my wayward mood; he'll think I have found it too dull down here. I'm immensely obliged.
LADY TORMINSTER. [With a smile.] Remark that I've not offered to be a sister to you.
SIR GEOFFREY. You've been superb. Oh, the good talk we've had! Do you know, I could almost wish old Jack to have heard what I said. I'm so fond of him, that grand old fellow, that I've been on the point of telling him, myself, more than once. For you know he will have me take you about, and it's painful. Besides, I've felt it almost disloyal to—keep this thing from him. You understand, don't you?
LADY TORMINSTER. Yes.
SIR GEOFFREY. He and I almost are one, you see. It's not British to show any feeling, but really I—love him. And the devil comes along, and, of all women in the world, singles out Jack's wife, and fills my heart with her. That's the devil's sense of humour.
LADY TORMINSTER. Perhaps he has read Bernard Shaw. But you must never let
Jack know—never.