Phil. The serpent?
Sir P. There was a serpent even in paradise.
Phil. There’s none in mine.
Sir P. (rises) I’m sorry to hear it. (crosses to C.) There is only one sort of paradise in which there is no serpent.
Phil. What sort do you mean?
Sir P. (C.) A fool’s. (takes snuff and goes to hearthrug, R., back to fire-place)
Phil. (rises and crosses to R.C. and sits L. of table) You are plain spoken, Sir Peter. Now tell me with equal candour what is the matter with me. Perhaps that is the serpent.
Sir P. Shall I tell you the truth?
Phil. Of course.
Sir P. I don’t know.