John.
He didn’t; he was innocent.
Theophila.
I’m sure he was, poor fellow.
John.
Well, he told me, one day in Brussels, that he managed to take all the sting out of his punishment by continually reminding himself that it was undeserved, that there wasn’t a shadow of justification for it. I suppose it would be the same with a woman who—who gets into a scrape; an innocent woman?
Theophila.
It’s good, under such circumstances, if you can feel a bit of a martyr, you mean?
John.
That’s it. So, in the future, you must never tire of reminding yourself of the utter harmlessness of those hours we used to spend together in Lennox Gardens.