Carve. None, except a few Italian and Spanish peasants—and me.
Pascoe. Well, well! It's an absolute mania then, this shyness.
Carve. (Slightly hurt.) Oh, not so bad as that! And then it's only fair to say he has his moments of great daring—you may say rashness.
Pascoe. All timid people are like that.
Carve. Are they? (Musing.) We're here now owing to one of his moments of rashness.
Pascoe. Indeed!
Carve. Yes. We met an English lady in a village in Andalusia, and—well, of course, I can't tell you everything—but she flirted with him and he flirted with her.
Pascoe. Under his own name?
Carve. Yes. And then he proposed to her. I knew all along it was a blunder.
Pascoe. (Ironic.) Did you?