Mr M. Imagine a man surfeited, cloyed, smothered in it; a man who has to pay six other men to look after it; a man who can’t live because of the income-tax, and daren’t die because of the death duties; a man overwhelmed with houses he can’t live in, yachts he can’t sail, horses he can’t ride; a man in whom the milk of human kindness is soured by impostors, and for whom even “deserving cases” have lost their charm; a man who’s been round the d——d world—I beg your pardon, really I beg your pardon—who’s been round the wretched world twice, and shot every beast on it at least once; who is sick of playing, and daren’t work for fear of making a profit——
Miss G. It almost sounds as if you were describing yourself.
Mr M. Oh no, no! No! At least—er—if at all, quite accidentally. I’ll describe you now, if you like.
Miss G. I get absolutely no thrill out of a new frock!
Mr M. There it is—in a nutshell, by Jingo! Miss Grainger, we have found the people we want, the people who are indifferent to money, and would—that is, might—marry us for love alone.
Miss G. (Laughing.) You mean—one another? That’s really rather an amusing end to our philosophising, isn’t it? (She rises, laughing still, and holds out her hand.) Good-night.
Mr M. (Indignantly.) Good-night be——! Why, our talk’s just got to the most interesting point!
Miss G. Well, you ought to know—you’ve been doing most of it yourself.
Mr M. Oh, but don’t go! I—I’ll do it better—and perhaps quicker too—if you’ll stay a bit.
Miss G. (Sitting again, with a laugh.) I’ll give you just five minutes to wind up the argument.