Isabel (musing). As you say, it was so long ago; I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. There was a married woman who had—what is the correct expression?—made sacrifices for him. There was only one sacrifice she objected to making—and he didn’t consider himself free. It sounds rather rococo, doesn’t it? It was odd that she died the year after we were married.
Warland. Whew!
Isabel (following her own thoughts). I’ve never seen him since; it must be ten years ago. I’m certainly thirty-two, and I was just twenty-two then. It’s curious to talk of it. I had put it away so carefully. How it smells of camphor! And what an old-fashioned cut it has! (Rising.) Where’s the list, Lucius? You wanted to know if there were to be people at dinner tonight—
Warland. Here it is—but never mind. Isabel—(silence) Isabel—
Isabel. Well?
Warland. It’s odd he never married.
Isabel. The comparison is to my disadvantage. But then I met you.
Warland. Don’t be so confoundedly sarcastic. I wonder how he’ll feel about seeing you. Oh, I don’t mean any sentimental rot, of course... but you’re an uncommonly agreeable woman. I daresay he’ll be pleased to see you again; you’re fifty times more attractive than when I married you.
Isabel. I wish your other investments had appreciated at the same rate. Unfortunately my charms won’t pay the butcher.
Warland. Damn the butcher!