Sir. J. You! If I spoke rather cynically this afternoon—if I have grown to think rather hardly of women—remember that there was one whom I—loved—and she—wouldn't have me!
(Lady Claude makes a gesture.)
Oh, don't be alarmed—I won't drag up the past. No doubt, then, I was merely a wild, impetuous youngster, like my poor Everard to-day. But—I have not forgotten—how deeply I—felt it.... And here I seem, through my carelessness, to have created sorrow for two young lives.... I'm a selfish man, of course—I've shown it plainly enough!—but still I've tried—honestly tried—to do my duty—by both of them.... Now I am urged to play an odious comedy—for it is odious, is it not?
Lady C. Deception can never be pleasant.... You have all my sympathy.
Sir J. I need it, I need it! Women, after all, are an unknown quantity to me. Your father has compiled a series of tables, has dissected and analysed—he may be right, I don't know—but I want you to guide me! You, and you only!
Lady C. (gently) What can I tell you? (rise and cross C. and sitting on stool)
Sir J. (L. C.) In the first place, this. Is it not rather my duty promptly to undeceive the girl, at any cost? Have I the right to—play with her affections?
Lady C. (hesitating) Sir Joseph—
Sir J. Remember, I loved her father. He entrusted his daughter to me, his old friend.... To-day, when I think of him!
Lady C. You want my honest opinion?