SIR GEOFFREY. I suppose not. He's so direct, so single-minded, that the shock would be terrible. But I'm not to blame. How could I help it? Oh, all that cackle about being master of one's fate!
LADY TORMINSTER. Two years in China—
SIR GEOFFREY. We'll hope so. Of course, it didn't matter about my telling you, because you knew already.
LADY TORMINSTER. [Nodding] Yes, I knew. Although—
SIR GEOFFREY. Oh, you've done what you could! I've felt, in a hundred subtle ways, how you almost implored me—not to. Well, there it is. I'll write that note at once.
[He sits at the table and begins to write.
LADY TORMINSTER. I'm sorry you are so lonely.
SIR GEOFFREY. That's my fault, too—the fault of the ridiculous class to which we belong. I don't do anything.
LADY TORMINSTER. Why not?
SIR GEOFFREY. What would you have me do? Go into the House? Thank you, I've been there. You spend your time on the Terrace or in the smoke-room till a muffin-bell rings; then you gravely walk into the lobby, where an energetic gentleman counts you as Polyphemus counted his sheep. Philanthropy! Well, I've tried that, but it's not in my line. I'm quite a respectable landlord, but a fellow can't live all by himself in a great Elizabethan barrack. Town—the Season? Christian mothers invite you to inspect their daughters' shoulders, with a view to purchase. I'm tired of golf and polo; I'm tired of bridge. So I'll try the good sea and the open plains; sleep in a tent and watch the stars twinkle—the stars that make you afraid.