Agatha Posket.
S-s-s-h! Don’t count! Cis, go away! [To Mr. Posket.] When you proposed to me in the “Pantheon” at Spa, you particularly remarked, “Mrs. Farringdon, I love you for yourself alone.”
Mr. Posket.
I know I did.
Agatha Posket.
Those were terrible words to address to a widow with a son of nineteen. [Cis and Mr. Posket again reckon rapidly upon their fingers.] Don’t count, Æneas, don’t count! Those words tempted me. I glanced at my face in a neighbouring mirror, and I said “Æneas is fifty—why should I—a mere woman, compete with him on the question of age? He has already the advantage—I will be generous—I will add to it!” I led you to believe I had been married only fifteen years ago, I deceived you and my boy as to his real age, and I told you I was but one-and-thirty.
Mr. Posket.
It wasn’t the truth?
Agatha Posket.
Ah! I merely lacked woman’s commonest fault, exaggeration.