Miss G. (Raising her brows.) Refusing?
Mr M. Refusing—to ask.
Miss G. Oh!
Mr M. (He smokes vigorously, then throws his cigarette into a receptacle.) It’s a precious lot easier for you than for us, though. I say, I must sound like a conceited idiot, I know, but—well, you see, the fact is——
Miss G. That you’re Mr Marchesson——?
Mr M. (Pleased.) You know my name?
Miss G. Oh yes. Mine’s Grainger.
Mr M. Yes. I—I know your name, Miss Grainger.
Miss G. You’re diamonds? (She touches some that she is wearing as she speaks. He nods gloomily.)
I’m soap. (He glances for a brief instant at his hand.) So, of course——! (She shrugs her shoulders and closes her fan. A moment’s pause.)