Capt. C. I'd changed my mind then. And you weren't a little beast any more.
Mrs. G. Thank you, sir! And when was I ever?
Capt. G. Never! But that first day, when you gave me tea in that peach-colored muslin gown thing, you looked—you did indeed, dear—such an absurd little mite. And I didn't know what to say to you.
Mrs. G. (Twisting moustache.) So you said “little beast.” Upon my word, Sir! I called you a “Crrrreature,” but I wish now I had called you something worse.
Capt. G. (Very meekly.) I apologize, but you're hurting me awf'ly. (Interlude.) You're welcome to torture me again on those terms.
Mrs. G. Oh, why did you let me do it?
Capt. G. (Looking across valley.) No reason in particular, but—if it amused you or did you any good—you might—wipe those dear little boots of yours on me.
Mrs. G. (Stretching out her hands.) Don't! Oh, don't! Philip, my King, please don't talk like that. It's how I feel. You're so much too good for me. So much too good!
Capt. G. Me! I'm not fit to put my arm around you. (Puts it round.)
Mrs. C. Yes, you are. But I—what have I ever done?