Philip. A letter!
Sir G. Signed, mind you, signed.
Philip. Signed! (his cry wakes Lady Carlyon)
Sir G. Nothing like a signature.
Philip. (rising) Wouldn’t you like it stamped as well, Sir George? (Lady Carlyon moves slightly)
Sir G. A penny postage stamp will be enough.
Philip. That is impossible.
Sir G. It must be got. (lays down cigar. Philip sinks back into seat again—Lady Carlyon, who has gone through the first processes of waking, lifts her head; at the sound of Sir George’s voice she starts half up and holds herself in that position during the rest of the conversation, but always so as not to be visible to the others. Sir George rises and stands by Philip) I feel so strongly that is the right course, because in my own life I have pursued the opposite; and I have paid—nay, I have not yet paid the penalty. I claim to be no better than my kind. When I was married, I too was entangled. I was a rising man—and it was necessary that I should obtain a seat in Parliament. Lady Carlyon’s father had much influence in the county which I represent. My marriage was political. I had a charming wife, who did her best to love me, heaven knows; and I might have loved her, if this entanglement from which I could not extricate myself had not been there. But there it was, and with a woman’s quickness she discovered it. I know she did, although she never spoke; and with a generosity which I can never repay, she did not add to my embarrassment. What was the sequel? Death cut the knot which I could not unravel. I am free. Now, many a time amongst these dead dry bones (pointing to briefs) I hunger for the love it is too late to win. Still that accursed past stands like a wall betwixt my wife and me. (returns, C.) Profit by my experience. (sits, C. )
Philip. No doubt, the course you recommend would be the proper course to take, if it were possible; but in the circumstances it is quite impossible.
Sir G. Difficult, perhaps, but not impossible. Have no false delicacy in a case like this. This lady—I presume, whoever she may be, she is a lady—who is fond of you, for that is evident, but of whose friendship you are weary, must be sacrificed. I pity her, but there is no help for it.