Peter. Well, you know the type. Good, plodding, conscientious, provincial girl, with about as much ambition as a potato. Marry her to a bank clerk and she'll be in her proper place. Picture her the wife of a Cabinet Minister, and—well, no, you can't. It's unthinkable.
Glad. The wife of a what?
Peter (imperviously). A Cabinet Minister.
Glad. But you're not a Cabinet Minister.
Peter (quite seriously). No, I'm young yet. What a man of my stamp wants is a wife who can help him to push his way, not one I'd be ashamed to show in society.
Glad. I see. You're marrying into one of the big political families.
Peter. No. I'm showing you how you can be done with Midlandton and get to London. You said you'd do anything for that.
Glad. I meant anything in reason. Shall we change the subject?
Peter. No.
Gladys (rising, curtly). Then I must go back to the hotel.