Denham.
What does the modern woman desire or expect from a man? You are sick of marriage, it seems.
Mrs. Tremaine.
As it exists—yes.
Denham.
Well, the instinctive amourette had its poetry—in Arcadia. Keep your hands quiet a moment.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Let me warm them first. Remember we are in the grip of a London May.
Denham.
All right—come. (She comes over to the picture. He stops her.) No, you must not look yet.