MITCHENER. A tenor. What sort had you?
LADY CORINTHIA. Had? I have it still. I tell you I am the highest living soprano. (Scornfully.) What was your highest note, pray?
MITCHENER. B flat—once—in 1879. I was drunk at the time.
LADY CORINTHIA (gazing at him almost tenderly). Though you may not believe me, I find you are more interesting when you talk about music than when you are endeavoring to betray a woman who has trusted you by remaining alone with you in your apartment.
MITCHENER (springing up and fuming away to the fireplace). These repeated insults to a man of blameless life are as disgraceful to you as they are undeserved by me, Lady Corinthia. Such suspicions invite the conduct they impute. (She raises the pistol.) You need not be alarmed: I am only going to leave the room.
LADY CORINTHIA. Fish.
MITCHENER. Fish! This is worse than tush. Why fish?
LADY CORINTHIA. Yes, fish: coldblooded fish.
MITCHENER. Dash it all, madam, do you WANT me to make advances to you?
LADY CORINTHIA. I have not the slightest intention of yielding to them; but to make them would be a tribute to romance. What is life without romance?