Alice. No, not your real taste and brain—they are fine and great. I only insult the veneer. I try to show you yourself,—this part I will save for you and sometime return to its owner intact.
George. Save?—how can you save something which you have never had?
Alice. That is my affair.
Maud (from the tea table, her voice raised in an exciting discussion). Bernard Shaw—
George (to himself). Bernard Shaw? (To Alice.) Well, save yourself the trouble, I will never accept that from anyone—my real self. (Nervously.) Alice, don’t bother about me—I don’t want you to, do you understand?
Alice (laughs). You dare to command me? Well, let us both play the same game. Tell me—why didn’t you come to see me last night—what did you do?
George. I did nothing. I wished to be alone. Solitude and silence produce great art, I believe.
Alice. Not when one is our age!
George. Alice, I don’t understand you to-day. For some time I’ve been thinking that you were changing; losing the fine sense of appreciation which you have always had for so many things in life and in art. Now, I am sure of it.
Alice. Don’t you understand? Well, as I said—solitude is for the aged.