Peter. Didn't my eyes tell you across the crowd?
Glad. Your eyes?
Peter (emphatically). Yes, mine spoke and yours answered mine, not once but half a dozen times.
Glad, (freezing). I'm afraid you're subject to delusions, Mr. Garside.
Peter. You're afraid to tell the truth.
Glad, (fencing). Truth's so miscellaneous, don't you think? It's a diamond with many facets.
Peter. I'm not here to bandy epigrams. Truth is truth. You're afraid to own by mouth the truth you told me with your eyes.
Glad. Don't you think you overrate the communicative capacity of eyes?
Peter. I think you're playing with me now. I know you didn't play then. We had reality there in the street. I'll make you tell me yet you meant the things your eyes spoke to me.
Glad. Make! This is strange language for a drawing-room, sir.