Cedric. And here all these years I've been taking myself for rather a crafty person!
Flora. Do you know how many times I've counted your portrait in the weeklies this year? One hundred and forty-six! And that's not reckoning the pictures where your aeroplane's so high up that you only look like a fly in a mouse-trap.
Cedric. In my simple mind I'd always thought that the surest way never to be recognised in the street was to have your portrait in the papers.
Flora. And then there's your likeness to your mother! A hundred and fifty-one thousand copies of your dear mother's last novel sold up to yesterday—so I saw in the "Telegraph." And then her new novel out to-day!
Cedric. I'm not suggesting that we should camp out in Piccadilly for our honeymoon, my dove and my love; I said Paris.
Flora. All London will be in Paris.
Cedric. What—next week?
Flora. Every week. Excuse me asking a pointed question, dearest, but have you ever been to Paris—I mean, since the flood?
Cedric. Yes. My knowledge of the unwieldy goods department of the big railway stations is probably matchless.
Flora. Well, if you'd stepped outside the stations you'd know that Paris is now exclusively inhabited by nice respectable people from London and nice respectable people from Arizona; and when they aren't cricking their necks to look at aeroplanes, they're improving their minds with your dear mother's latest novel.