GERALD. Oh, don't go.
ANABEL. Yes, good night. (Exit.)
OLIVER. She's NOT reformed, Gerald. She's the same old moral character—moral to the last bit of her, really—as she always was.
GERALD. Is that what it is?—But one must be moral.
OLIVER. Oh, yes. Oliver Cromwell wasn't as moral as Anabel is—nor such an iconoclast.
GERALD. Poor old Anabel!
OLIVER. How she hates the dark gods!
GERALD. And yet they cast a spell over her. Poor old Anabel! Well, Oliver, is Bacchus the father of whisky?
OLIVER. I don't know.—I don't like you either. You seem to smile all over yourself. It's objectionable. Good night.
GERALD. Oh, look here, this is censorious.