Mr M. (Looking at her.) Well, yes, I think you would. You daren’t venture on it!
Miss G. It is generally fatal, I admit.
Mr M. The plain truth is that the thing’s intolerable. I shall stick a placard on my waistcoat—“Not for sale.”
Miss G. And I’d better become a hospital nurse!
Mr M. That’s rather an odd remedy, Miss Grainger. But, in some form or other, celibacy—public and avowed celibacy—is our only chance. (He throws himself down in the chair.)
Miss G. (Low.) Unless there was somebody who——
Mr M. Didn’t know who you were? Not to be done in these days, with the illustrated press! And—you’ll excuse my referring to it?—but your fond father put you on the wrappings of the soap. And owing to the large sale of the article——
Miss G. Yes, I know. But I meant—if there was somebody who didn’t—didn’t care about the money?
Mr M. (Half under his breath.) Said he didn’t!
Miss G. And who—who really did care just for—for oneself alone? Oh, I must sound romantic and absurd; but you—you know what I mean, Mr Marchesson? There are such men, aren’t there?