CLARE. Five years, and four of them like this! I'm sure we've served our time. Don't you really think we might get on better together—if I went away?
GEORGE. I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason, and have your name bandied about all over London. I have some primitive sense of honour.
CLARE. You mean your name, don't you?
GEORGE. Look here. Did that fellow Malise put all this into your head?
CLARE. No; my own evil nature.
GEORGE. I wish the deuce we'd never met him. Comes of picking up people you know nothing of. I distrust him—and his looks—and his infernal satiric way. He can't even 'dress decently. He's not—good form.
CLARE. [With a touch of rapture] Ah-h!
GEORGE. Why do you let him come? What d'you find interesting in him?
CLARE. A mind.
GEORGE. Deuced funny one! To have a mind—as you call it—it's not necessary to talk about Art and Literature.