Janet. You said I didn't really believe after all that you are Ilam Carve, and I assured you in the most soothing manner that I did believe you are Ilam Carve!
Carve. And do you call that agreeing with me? I know perfectly well from your tone that in spite of all my explanations and reiterations during the last three months you don't believe I'm Ilam Carve. You only say you do in order to soothe me. I hate being soothed. You're as convinced as ever that Ebag is a rascal, and that I've got a bee in my bonnet.
Janet. But what does it matter?
Carve. (Cold and hard.) Well, I like that!
Janet. (Weeping.) It's not my fault if I don't believe you're Ilam Carve. I would if I could, but I can't! You're very cruel.
Carve. (Jumping up and embracing her.) Hush, hush! There! (Cajolingly.) Who's being an infant now?
Janet. I don't pretend to understand this art.
Carve. I hope you never will. One of the chief charms of existence in your wigwam, my child, is that I never hear any confounded chatter about art. Now—are we pals?
Janet. (Smiling reconciliation.) Darling, do turn the gas up.
[114]Carve. (Obeying, struck by her attire.) Why—what are you dressed like that for?