Mrs. Dale. It’s so easy to be heroic when one is young! One doesn’t realize how long life is going to last afterward. (Musing.) Nor what weary work it is gathering up the fragments.
Ventnor. But the time comes when one sends for the china-mender, and has the bits riveted together, and turns the cracked side to the wall—
Mrs. Dale. And denies that the article was ever damaged?
Ventnor. Eh? Well, the great thing, you see, is to keep one’s self out of reach of the housemaid’s brush. (A pause.) If you’re married you can’t—always. (Smiling.) Don’t you hate to be taken down and dusted?
Mrs. Dale (with intention). You forget how long ago my husband died. It’s fifteen years since I’ve been an object of interest to anybody but the public.
Ventnor (smiling). The only one of your admirers to whom you’ve ever given the least encouragement!
Mrs. Dale. Say rather the most easily pleased!
Ventnor. Or the only one you cared to please?
Mrs. Dale. Ah, you haven’t kept my letters!
Ventnor (gravely). Is that a challenge? Look here, then! (He drams a packet from his pocket and holds it out to her.)