SIR HARRY. They came in to finish a talk we had been having at the club.
KATE. An interesting talk, evidently.
SIR HARRY. The papers had been full that evening of the elopement of some countess woman with a fiddler. What was her name?
KATE. Does it matter?
SIR HARRY. No. [Thus ends the countess.] We had been discussing the thing and—[he pulls a wry face]—and I had been rather warm——
KATE. [With horrid relish.] I begin to see. You had been saying it served the husband right, that the man who could not look after his wife deserved to lose her. It was one of your favorite subjects. Oh, Harry, say it was that!
SIR HARRY. [Sourly.] It may have been something like that.
KATE. And all the time the letter was there, waiting; and none of you knew except the clock. Harry, it is sweet of you to tell me. [His face is not sweet. The illiterate woman has used the wrong adjective.] I forget what I said precisely in the letter.
SIR HARRY. [Pulverizing her.] So do I. But I have it still.
KATE. [Not pulverized.] Do let me see it again.