W-w-when, then. When we marry, you’ll be obliged to resign your commission in the Guards, won’t you?
Farncombe.
Snapping his fingers. P’sh! I shan’t care a rap about that.
Lily.
Snatching her hand away. The snobs! The snobs! They’d let you marry any bit of trash in your own set; but a Pandora girl, though she’s as pure as the Queen of England——! Oh, the contemptible snobs!
Farncombe.
Regaining possession of her hand. H’sh! H’sh! It—it’s the practice——
Lily.
Blow the practice! A cheerful reflection for me, it’ll be. The arrant snobs!
Farncombe.