Carve. (With an attempt at cold irony, but yet in a voice imperfectly controlled.) Did your brother relent and graciously permit Lady Leonard Alcar to encourage a national funeral? Or was it due solely to the influence of the newspapers written by people of refined culture like the man who gave his opinion the other day that I had got 'em? Or perhaps you yourself settled it with your esteemed uncle over a cup of tea?
Honoria. Of course, Mr. Shawn, any one can see that you're artistic yourself, and artists are generally very sarcastic about the British
[82]public. I know I am.... Now, don't you paint?
Carve. (Shrugging his shoulders.) I used to—a little.
Honoria. I was sure of it. Well, you can be as sarcastic as you like, but do you know what I was thinking during the service? I was thinking if only he could have seen it—if only Ilam Carve could have seen it—instead of lying cold in that coffin under that wreath, he'd—(Hesitating.)
Carve. (Interrupting her, in a different, resolved tone.) Miss Looe, I suppose you're on very confidential terms with your uncle.
Honoria. Naturally. Why?
Carve. Will you give him a message from me. He'll do perhaps better than anybody.
Honoria. With pleasure.
Carve. (Moved.) It is something important—very important indeed. In fact—