She. No. You ought to know that I am a miracle of constancy. What are your arrangements?
He. Ours, Sweetheart, please.
She. Ours, be it then. My poor boy, how the prickly heat has marked your forehead! Have you ever tried sulphate of copper in water?
He. It’ll go away in a day or two up here. The arrangements are simple enough. Tonga in the early morning reach Kalka at twelve Umballa at seven down, straight by night train, to Bombay, and then the steamer of the 21st for Rome. That’s my idea. The Continent and Sweden a ten-week honeymoon.
She. Ssh! Don’t talk of it in that way. It makes me afraid. Guy, how long have we two been insane?
He. Seven months and fourteen days, I forget the odd hours exactly, but I’ll think.
She. I only wanted to see if you remembered. Who are those two on the Blessington Road?
He. Eabrey and the Penner Woman. What do they matter to us? Tell me everything that you’ve been doing and saying and thinking.
She. Doing little, saying less, and thinking a great deal. I’ve hardly been out at all.
He. That was wrong of you. You haven’t been moping?