Lady Patricia.
It becomes more and more difficult to play my part, and return Michael’s love, which seems to grow stronger and deeper day by day. His eyes follow my every movement, his mind anticipates my every wish, he surrounds me with an atmosphere of passionate worship. Few women have ever received such love. It is the love that poets dream of—the love that must follow those marriages that are made in heaven.
Bill.
Good Lord, it’s awfully rough on you!
Lady Patricia.
I think and I think and I think, but I can see no solution to the mystery. Surely love is the best gift of God, and that such love as Michael’s—so noble, so pure, so unselfish—should be utterly wasted, is inconceivable. It must be that I am unworthy.
(She pauses expectantly.)
Bill.
And it puts me in such a rotten position. If Michael treated you badly, I shouldn’t care a rap how much I made love to you.