Mrs. R. Haslam. (Quietly courteous.) I mean, if you brought more to the marriage.
Flora. Money? I'm not rich, but you see I'm rich enough to despise ten thousand pounds.
Mrs. R. Haslam. (Protesting.) Flora! Please don't mention such a thing! Have I mentioned it? I think we Haslams are as capable as anybody of despising ten thousand pounds. (Very kindly.) No, I mean, if you had more to show in the way of—shall I say?—striking personal talent. You can have no rôle except that of wife, purely social and domestic. And yet your attitude seems somehow to claim the privileges of a—a great singer, or a great pianist, or——
Flora. A great novelist?
Mrs. R. Haslam. (Imperturbable.) No, no. I was thinking more of public performers.... Genius.... If you had genius, talents. Mind, I'm not blaming you for not having them. I make no reflection whatever.... Of course you are good, I hope, and you're beautiful.
Flora. So they say.
Mrs. R. Haslam. But beauty is a mere gift—from heaven.
Flora. My dear, what's the difference between a talent, and a gift from heaven? I remember not very long since you were really quite annoyed because the "Saturday Review," I think it was, referred to you as "Mrs. Reach Haslam, the talented novelist." Whereas you are constantly being called the "gifted novelist," and you like it. (She begins to sit down.)
Mr. R. Haslam. Pardon me. "Like" is too strong a word. My wife prefers to be mentioned as "Mrs. Reach Haslam," simply—don't you, dear? One doesn't expect to read in the papers "Mr. Balfour, the talented statesman," "Lord Northcliffe, the talented statesman." One expects only "Mr. Balfour," "Lord Northcliffe."
Mrs. R. Haslam. (Waving him graciously into silence. To Flora.) I willingly admit, dear, that in its origin a talent—like mine, if you insist—is a gift from heaven. But what years of study are necessary to perfect it! Whereas mere beauty, charm——