Nor. It sounds ungallant to say so, but I really forget for the moment.
Bea. Well, never mind that now. Tell us who was the lady who used you so shamefully. I am dying to know. (looking him straight in the face)
Nor. You must excuse me. Though I am ungallant enough to forget where I met Mrs. Selwyn, I am not so unchivalrous as to betray a lady’s secret. (moves away to L.C. in front of sofa)
Bea. (goes to Philip, R.C.) Phil, dear, your friend is quite a hero of romance. If you have any more such friends, please lose no time in introducing them.
Phil. My love, don’t make me jealous. (Beatrice goes to Normantower. Philip turns and speaks to Sir Peter)
Bea. (giving her hand frankly to Normantower) Thank you, Lord Normantower.
Nor. (taking her hand, rather disconcerted) For what, Mrs. Selwyn?
Bea. For your loyalty—to my sex. (turns off up stage to back of table, calling Sir Peter, who rises and joins her. She shows him a book, which she takes from table)
Phil. (crosses to Normantower, takes his arm, and draws him back to sofa) You’ve had a narrow escape, evidently; but don’t make the mistake of letting the unworthiness of one woman blind you to the merits of the rest. Believe me, there is no happiness like that of married love. (sits on sofa. Sir Peter is looking at book; Beatrice listening to conversation)
Nor. (sits L. of Philip) Love! there is no such thing. We think we are in love, but we aren’t. What is called love is an affliction of the brain, not an affection of the heart. Luckily, we soon get over it.