ROSIE (huffily). You can speak if you like. I don't undertake to reply.
CLAV. I'm sorry if I've offended you. Won't you tell me why?
ROSIE. You've treated Mr. Bunting very shabbily, and I really don't wish to hear another word from you.
CLAV. Oh, don't say that. I've tried so often to get a chance of speaking to you alone. I've hungered for it, but it never came. Your radiant health stood in the way of even a professional visit. I found an excuse to come last night.
ROSIE. So Alcott's illness was only an excuse. Isn't he ill?
CLAV. Of course he's ill. What does Alcott matter? He's only one more ground up in the mill—and your father sent you from the room because I broke his absurd rule of mentioning a works affair in your presence. I knew the rule, and I risked his displeasure on the chance of seeing you alone to plead my cause.
ROSIE. Your cause was Alcott, wasn't it?
CLAV. My cause was myself. You've not forgotten, have you, what I asked you once before, how I came to you two years ago——?
ROSIE. What do you mean? I think it is you who forget. Must I remind you that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Bunting? (Clavering gets chair r. of table and sits facing Rosie.)
CLAV. Of course I know that nominally you are engaged to him. (Rosie tries to interrupt in vain.) I know how it all happened—an old standing idea between your father and his. But really, really, these family arrangements are out of date. I tell you, Miss Thompson, if I could think for one moment that you were satisfied to marry Charlie, I'd pluck my tongue out rather than speak to you like this. I won't believe it. It's an "arrangement" which suits neither of you. Charlie kicks openly against the pricks. Your splendid loyalty makes you submit in silence. Loyalty and submission have their uses, but you must never let this relic of bygone days survive to wreck our happiness.