MRS. CULVER. I don't care.
CULVER. Supposing that anyone came in and caught us!
MRS. CULVER. Well, we're married.
CULVER.—But it's so long since. Hildegarde's twenty-one! John, seventeen!
MRS. CULVER. It seems to me like yesterday.
CULVER. Yes, you're incurably a girl.
MRS. CULVER. I'm not.
CULVER. You are. And I'm a boy. I say we are absurd. We're continually absurd. We were absurd all last evening when we pretended before the others, with the most disastrous results, that nothing was the matter. We were still more absurd when we went to our twin beds and argued savagely with each other from bed to bed until four o'clock this morning. Do you know that I had exactly one hour and fifty-five minutes' sleep? ( Yawns .) Do you know that owing to extreme exhaustion my behaviour at my office to-day has practically lost the war? But the most absurd thing of all was you trying to do the Roman matron business at dinner to-night. Mind you, I adore you for being absurd, but—
MRS. CULVER ( very endearingly, putting her hand on his mouth ). Dearest, you needn't continue. I know you're wiser and stronger than me in every way. But I love that. Most women wouldn't; but I do. ( Kisses him .) Oh! I'm so glad you've at last seen the force of my arguments about the title.
CULVER ( gently warning ). Now, now! You're behaving like a journalist.