HE. (coming over to her) Now what do you mean by that?
SHE. I thought perhaps you were playing truant, as I am.
HE. Playing truant?
SHE. I was looking at the house, you know. And I got tired and ran away.
HE. Well, to tell the truth, so did I. It's dull work, isn't it?
SHE. I've been upstairs and down for two hours. That family portrait gallery finished me. It was so old and gloomy and dead that I felt as if I were dead myself. I just had to do something. I wanted to jab my parasol through the window-pane. I understood just how the suffragettes felt. But I was afraid of shocking the agent. He is such a meek little man, and he seemed to think so well of me. If I had broken the window I would have shattered his ideals of womanhood, too, I'm afraid. So I just slipped away quietly and came here.
HE. I've only been there half an hour and we—I've only been in the basement. That's why our tours of inspection didn't bring us together sooner. I've been cross-examining the furnace. Do you understand furnaces? (He sits down beside her) I don't.
SHE. Do you like family portraits? I hate 'em!
HE. What! Do the family portraits go with the house?
SHE. No, thank heaven. They've been bequeathed to some museum, I am told. They're valuable historically—early colonial governors and all that sort of stuff. But there is some one with me who—who takes a deep interest in such things.