Flora. So do I. It's because I get on so well with her that we had a curate to-day instead of the Bishop. Rather a jolly curate, didn't you think?
Cedric. Struck me as a queer lot.
Flora. Of course they're all queer. I liked him because when he asked me to sign my name he didn't say (imitating the snigger of a curate) "for the last time." They always do, you know. It's almost part of the service, for them. And if he had said it, I do believe I should have screamed.
Cedric. I say, Fluff, why after hiding this secret for several weeks—it's practically a double life that you've been leading—why do you reveal it just at this particular moment?
Flora. Oh—sheer caprice, my dearest! It just popped into my head.
Cedric. (Somewhat troubled and awkward.) So your notion is that the mater's moral empire over her family and the British public might be checked without grave loss of life, eh?
Flora. Cedric! (Cedric looks at her, arrested and questioning.) What's the rarest thing in the world? Quick?
Cedric. Common-sense, of course.
Flora. Oh! Good! I was afraid you might say a well-cooked potato.
Cedric. You ought to know me better than that.