What do you mean?
Parbury.
All this solicitude for my happiness—this sudden change of your point of view—this miraculous conversion of the cynic into the peacemaker—all inspired by a pair of blue eyes. An arrow from Cupid’s bow has winged its way into this wooden heart—[Tapping Gunning’s chest]—and “Earth has won her child again,” as Goethe puts it.
Gunning.
Don’t talk rot!
Parbury.
Don’t be offended. I like it. It pleases me. Think of it! One dull evening in a suburban home, one morning’s encounter in a rose-garden, and the thing’s done—the sage melts into the man, the onlooker into the soldier. I tell you I like it. It’s so natural, so human—so splendidly unlike you. Let me help. What can I do? She’s coming here now with some letters for me to sign. “Were it ever so airy a tread, your heart would hear her and beat.” Isn’t it so? Shall I speak to her for you? Better still, shall I leave you alone together?
Gunning.
[Fixing his hat on more firmly and taking his stick.] I’m going. You bore me.
Enter Miss Woodward, L. She carries some typewritten letters and pen and ink. She goes to the table and stands waiting for Parbury.