Peter (glancing at Gladys). I'm not beauty-proof, Lady Mottram.
Lady M. Ah, but real beauty is so rare.
Peter. That's why it haunts me.
Lady M. Is there a case in point?
Peter. Yes.
Lady M. (insincerely). How romantic! Do tell us about it, Mr. Garside.
Peter (eyeing Gladys). Shall I?
Glad. Do please.
Peter. It is romantic, Lady Mottram. I didn't think such beauty could be earthly. It came upon me just as I stood speaking at a street corner one night, a face on the outskirts of my audience. I was tired and it gave me strength. My voice was failing, but it rang out fresh again to reach those ears. I've seen it many times since then, that angel's face with a halo, always at the fringe of the crowd, always an inspiration, eyes that yearned to mine across the sea of caps and drew my very soul into my words. I thought it was a dream. Could the same clay that moulded me be shaped to this vision? Until to-night I didn't know such women could exist.
Lady M. (trying to appear interested). It's a woman, then.