MRS. JUNO. Well, go.
GREGORY. Yes. Er—[he tries to go]. I—I somehow can't. [He sits down again helplessly]. My conscience is active: my will is paralyzed. This is really dreadful. Would you mind ringing the bell and asking them to throw me out? You ought to, you know.
MRS. JUNO. What! make a scandal in the face of the whole hotel! Certainly not. Don't be a fool.
GREGORY. Yes; but I can't go.
MRS. JUNO. Then I can. Goodbye.
GREGORY [clinging to her hand]. Can you really?
MRS. JUNO. Of course I—[she wavers]. Oh, dear! [They contemplate one another helplessly]. I can't. [She sinks on the lounge, hand in hand with him].
GREGORY. For heaven's sake pull yourself together. It's a question of self-control.
MRS. JUNO [dragging her hand away and retreating to the end of the chesterfield]. No: it's a question of distance. Self-control is all very well two or three yards off, or on a ship, with everybody looking on. Don't come any nearer.
GREGORY. This is a ghastly business. I want to go away; and I can't.