Her melancholy increasing. Sometimes I’ve an idea that if I had a motor-car of my own I should feel easier and happier.
De Castro.
With a change of tone. What d’ye mean—motor-car of yer own? Mine’th alwayth at your dithpothal, ithn’t it?
Gabrielle.
Shaking her head. That’s not the same thing. Whenever I have yours out, I’m weighed down by a sense of borrowing.
De Castro.
Well, if I gave you a new car, you’d be weighed down by a thenthe of my havin’ paid for it.
Gabrielle.
At first I should, but not for long. Seeing my family crest on the door-panels, instead of your monogram, ’ud help me to forget you’d had anything to do with it. Gloomily. Of course, it ’ud only be an experiment. It might cheer me up, or it mightn’t.
The music ceases. A waiter carrying a tray enters at the door on the left, goes behind the counter, and mixes some drinks.