Flora. (Having sat down, and finally arranged her fan and shawl, etc.) It's taken me at least seven years of intense study to learn to sit down like that—and in another two years I shall do it even better. (With a delightful smile.)
Mrs. R. Haslam. (Graciously lenient.) But seriously——
Flora. Seriously? (Stopping, in a different tone.) My dear, did the Bishop say anything when I left the room?
Mrs. R. Haslam. Say anything! About what?
Flora. About me.
Mr. R. Haslam. He remarked that you were a ravishing creature.
Flora. Jokingly?
Mr. R. Haslam. No. He was quite serious.
Flora. That's just it. If it was only frivolous, empty-headed boys who were serious about it, but it isn't. The most high-minded, middle-aged men are serious about it. Why, even chaffeurs and policemen are serious about it. There must be something in it. Wherever I go people are more serious about me than about anybody else—even if singers and pianists happen to be present. If I arrive late at the theatres I'm the play for at least two minutes. And I assure you in the streets it often occurs that men I don't know hurry after me very seriously about it—even if I'm veiled. And yet you and I have the same dressmaker! It's always been like that—ever since my first marriage. And it's getting more and more marked. I don't mind telling you, my dear, that my own secret view of my importance is perhaps as modest as yours is of yours—but what can you and I do against the universal opinion? I've begin to bow before the storm. It's the wisest course. You talk about what I bring to the marriage (proudly). I bring to the marriage the gift of heaven, cultivated by the labour of a lifetime, and, as to its value, there's only one estimate, except yours (with a catch in her voice)—and Cedric's! Cedric puts an aeroplane higher.
Cedric. I beg your pardon——