MRS. G. Are you? Oh, yes; I forgot. You are in favour of so many things you didn't used to be. Well, then, it will be something else. You will always find an excuse; I shall never feel safe about you.
GLADSTONE (in moved tone). And if you could feel safe about me— what then?
MRS. G. Oh, my dear, my dear, if I could! Always I've seen you neglecting yourself—always putting aside your real interests—the things that you most inwardly cared about, the things which you always meant to do when you "had time." And here I have had to sit and wait for the time that never came. Isn't that true?
GLADSTONE. There is an element of truth in it, my dear.
MRS. G. Well, twenty years have gone like that, and you've "had no time." Oh, if you could only go back to the things you meant to do, twenty years ago—and take them up, just where you left off—why, I should see you looking—almost young again. For you've been looking tired lately, my dear.
GLADSTONE. Tired? Yes: I hoped not to have shown it. But three weeks ago I had to own to myself that I was beginning to feel tired. I went to Crichton Browne (I didn't tell you, my love); he said there was nothing the matter with me—except old age.
MRS. G. You should have come to me, my dear; I could have told you the only thing to do.
GLADSTONE. Is it too late to tell me now?
MRS. G. Yes; because now you've done it, without my advice, William. Think of that! For the first time!
GLADSTONE (gravely surprised). So you have been wishing it, have you?