Corn. Oh, he doesn’t mind. We put everything on to Peter; and I’m so much afraid of your father’s displeasure; you don’t know the treasure you are Bea; and the fume a fellow gets in for fear of losing you. (with arm round Bea.)
Bea. Why should you be so anxious? If your past was only blameless.
Corn. (absent minded) Yes! If it only was!
Bea. Do you tell me it is not?
Corn. (quickly) No! Of course I don’t, you don’t think I’m such a jay—gay—gay deceiver? (turns slightly away) If we were only married. Then I shouldn’t have to be so careful.
Bea. Have you to be careful?
Corn. Of myself, yes! But then, you can take care of me; and I can be careful of you; and I shan’t have to invent stories about Art photographs, or French Novels.
Bea. Novels, Corney?
Corn. Though they’re not really mine; Innings brought them here.
Bea. We’ve not seen Mr. Innings lately.