carnaby. For the sake of appearances.
lord john. Damn all appearances.
carnaby. Now I'll lose my temper. Sir, you have compromised my daughter.
lord john. Nonsense!
carnaby. Villain! What's your next move?
For a moment lord john sits with knit brows.
lord john. [Brutally.] Mr. Leete, your name stinks.
carnaby. My point of dis-ad-vantage!
lord john. [Apologising.] Please say what you like. I might have put my remark better.
carnaby. I think not; the homely Saxon phrase is our literary dagger. Princelike, you ride away from Markswayde. Can I trust you not to stab a socially sick man? Why it's a duty you owe to society . . . to weed out . . . us.