CULVER. That's all right.
TRANTO. Well, if I mayn't congratulate you on the title, let me congratulate you on your marvellous skill in this delicate operation of preparing the domestic ground for your refusal of the title. Your success is complete, absolute.
CULVER ( sardonic .) Complete? Absolute?
TRANTO. You have—er—jockeyed Mrs.—er—the sex into committing itself quite definitely against titles. Hence I look on your position as impregnable.
CULVER. Good heavens, Tranto! How old are you?
TRANTO. Twenty-five.
CULVER. A quarter of a century—and you haven't learnt that no position is impregnable against—er—the sex! You never know where the offensive will come, nor when, nor how. The offensive is bound to be a surprise. You aren't married. When you are you'll soon find out that being a husband is a whole-time job. That's why so many husbands fail. They can't give their entire attention to it. Tranto, my position must be still further strengthened—during dinner. It can't be strengthened too much. I've brought you into the conspiracy because you're on the spot and I want you to play up.
TRANTO. Certainly, sir.
CULVER. The official letter might come by to-night's post. If it does, a considerable amount of histrionic skill will be needed.
TRANTO. Trust me for that.