MRS. CULVER. No one would guess that from your articles in The Echo . Of course they're frightfully clever, but you know I don't quite agree with all your opinions.
STRAIGHT. Neither do I. You see—there's always a difference between what one thinks and what one has to write.
MRS. CULVER. I'm so glad. (Culver starts and looks round .) What is it, Arthur?
CULVER. Nothing! I thought I heard the ice cracking. (Hildegarde begins to smile .)
STRAIGHT ( looking at the floor; simply ). Ice?
MRS. CULVER. Arthur!
STRAIGHT. It was still thawing when I came in. As I was saying, I'm an old-fashioned man. And I'm a provincial—and proud of it.
MRS. CULVER. But my dear Mr. Straight, really, if you'll excuse me, you look as if you never left the pavement of Piccadilly.
CULVER. Say the windows of the Turf club, darling.
STRAIGHT ( serenely ). No. I live very, very quietly on my little place, and when I feel the need of contact with the great world I run over for the afternoon to—St. Ives.