LADY MARY (who is taken aback). George, I think you are the noblest man—
(She is touched, and gives him both her hands. Unfortunately he simpers.)
LORD BROCKLEHURST. She was a pretty little thing. (She stares, but he marches to his doom.) Ah, not beautiful like you. I assure you it was the merest flirtation; there were a few letters, but we have got them back. It was all owing to the boat being so late at Calais. You see she had such large, helpless eyes.
LADY MARY (fixing him). George, when you lunched with father to-day at the club—
LORD BROCKLEHURST. I didn’t. He wired me that he couldn’t come.
LADY MARY (with a tremor). But he wrote you?
LORD BROCKLEHURST. No.
LADY MARY (a bird singing in her breast). You haven’t seen him since?
LORD BROCKLEHURST. No.
(She is saved. Is he to be let off also? Not at all. She bears down on him like a ship of war.)