Charles. Would you mind telling father or mother to see that my supper is set for me in the garden to-night? And something solid, too!
(Enter Cedric.)
Flora. I will.
(Exit Charles, back.)
Flora. I see your mother's told you. Well, what can I say to you?
Cedric. (Sitting down.) You might congratulate me on the way I'm keeping calm under stress.
Flora. But why do you come in like this and look at me like this?
Cedric. Idle curiosity! Having received the news from the mater, I was absurdly curious to hear any remarks you might have to make to me. So I came in—like this.
Flora. Cedric, I did it the best way I could. I thought I would imitate the blandness of the sham curate. You haven't seen him to-night, but I may tell you he carries blandness further than it has ever been carried before.... I was afraid if I didn't do it at once it might never be done. I could see the time going on and going on, and me preparing myself to do this thing in a nice, kind, tactful, proper way, exactly as it should be done—and never doing it—never beginning to do it! And at last finding myself at Chelmsford to-morrow, and hypnotised by your mother and the Bishop. Cedric, I'm sure it's a mistake to prepare to do a thing like this, leading up to it, and so on. The best plan is to let it go off with a frightful bang, anyhow, as I've done! Then the worst happens at the start instead of at the finish.