[He enters.
In a Fly.
Undershell (to himself). Alone with a lovely girl, who has no suspicion, as yet, that I am the poet whose songs have thrilled her with admiration! Could any situation be more romantic? I think I must keep up this little mystification as long as possible.
Phillipson (to herself). I wonder who he is? Somebody's Man, I suppose. I do believe he's struck with me. Well, I've no objection. I don't see why I shouldn't forget Jim now and then—he's quite forgotten me! (Aloud.) They might have sent a decent carriage for us instead of this ramshackle old summerhouse. We shall be hours getting to the house at this rate!
Undershell (gallantly). For my part, I care not how long we may be. I feel so unspeakably content to be where I am.
Phillipson (disdainfully). In this mouldy, lumbering old concern? You must be rather easily contented, then!
Undershell (dreamily). It travels only too swiftly. To me it is a veritable enchanted car, drawn by a magic steed.
Phillipson. I don't know whether he's magic—but I'm sure he's lame. And stuffiness is not my notion of enchantment.
Undershell. I'm not prepared to deny the stuffiness. But cannot you guess what has transformed this vehicle for me—in spite of its undeniable shortcomings—or must I speak more plainly still?
Phillipson. Well, considering the shortness of our acquaintance, I must say you've spoken quite plainly enough as it is!