HUBERT: I suppose you'd be more likely to say "Yes" if I were an unmitigated bounder?
OLIVIA (with a laugh): Oh, don't be silly….
HUBERT (going to her): You're a rum girl, Olivia, upon my soul you are. P'raps that's why I think you're so jolly attractive. Like a mouse one minute, and then this straight-from-the-shoulder business…. What is a sonnet?
OLIVIA: It's a poem of fourteen lines.
HUBERT: Oh, yes, Shakespeare…. Never knew you did a spot of rhyming, Olivia! Now that's what I mean about you…. We'll have to start calling you Elizabeth Bronte!
She turns away. He studies her.
You are bored, aren't you?
He walks to the sun-room. She rouses herself and turns to him impetuously.
OLIVIA: I'm being silly, I know—of course I ought to get married, and of course this is a wonderful chance, and—HUBERT (moving to her): Good egg! Then you will? OLIVIA (stalling): Give me a—another week or two—will you?
HUBERT: Oh. My holiday's up on the twenty-seventh.