CRICHTON (smiling at her fury). We shall see. Frown at me, Polly; there, you do it at once. Clench your little fists, stamp your feet, bite your ribbons—(A student of women, or at least of this woman, he knows that she is about to do those things, and thus she seems to do them to order. LADY MARY screws up her face like a baby and cries. He is immediately kind.) You child of nature; was it cruel of me to wish to save you from harm?
LADY MARY (drying her eyes). I’m an ungracious wretch. Oh God, I don’t try half hard enough to please you. I’m even wearing—(she looks down sadly)—when I know you prefer it.
CRICHTON (thoughtfully). I admit I do prefer it. Perhaps I am a little old-fashioned in these matters. (Her tears again threaten.) Ah, don’t, Polly; that’s nothing.
LADY MARY. If I could only please you, Gov.
CRICHTON (slowly). You do please me, child, very much—(he half rises)—very much indeed. (If he meant to say more he checks himself. He looks at his plate.) No more, thank you. (The simple island meal is ended, save for the walnuts and the wine, and CRICHTON is too busy a man to linger long over them. But he is a stickler for etiquette, end the table is cleared charmingly, though with dispatch, before they are placed before him. LADY MARY is an artist with the crumb-brush, and there are few arts more delightful to watch. Dusk has come sharply, and she turns on the electric light. It awakens CRICHTON from a reverie in which he has been regarding her.)
CRICHTON. Polly, there is only one thing about you that I don’t quite like. (She looks up, making a moue, if that can be said of one who so well knows her place. He explains.) That action of the hands.
LADY MARY. What do I do?
CRICHTON. So—like one washing them. I have noticed that the others tend to do it also. It seems odd.
LADY MARY (archly). Oh Gov., have you forgotten?
CRICHTON. What?