"I'll give you a word of advice, Polly. If you're going to be a nice woman and want to keep your peace of mind, never fall in love with a poet, a playwright or indeed any man who takes his pen in hand for a living."
"But, sir—aren't you a poet and don't you write plays?"
"Exactly, and that's why I'm warning you. Ex uno disce omnes, which you may like to know means, we're all tarred with the same brush."
"And do you drink too much, sir?" inquired Lavinia with an engaging simplicity.
"Gad, not oftener than I can help. But we were talking about falling in love and that has nothing to do with my drinking habits. About Mr. Vane's—well, that's a different matter. You haven't fallen in love with me and you have with a clever young man who's going as fast as he can to the deuce."
"I don't know, sir, whether you're laughing at me or telling me the truth, but—Mr. Vane risked his life for me."
"And to reward him you're thinking of trusting him with yours. A pretty guardian—a man who can't take care of his own!"
"Oh, you're wrong, Mr. Gay—indeed, you are. Mr. Vane is nothing to me. I'm only sorry for him."
"Of course—of course. That's the first step. You begin by being sorry for your sweetheart and you end by being sorry for yourself. Well—well, a woman must go her own way or she wouldn't be a woman. What have you there?"
Lavinia was holding out a parcel.