SIR HARRY. [Staring.] How you must have hated me.
KATE. [Smiling at the childish word.] Not a bit—after I saw that there was a way out. From that hour you amused me, Harry; I was even sorry for you, for I saw that you couldn't help yourself. Success is just a fatal gift.
SIR HARRY. Oh, thank you.
KATE. [Thinking, dear friends in front, of you and me perhaps.] Yes, and some of your most successful friends knew it. One or two of them used to look very sad at times, as if they thought they might have come to something if they hadn't got on.
SIR HARRY. [Who has a horror of sacrilege.] The battered crew you live among now—what are they but folk who have tried to succeed and failed?
KATE. That's it; they try, but they fail.
SIR HARRY. And always will fail.
KATE. Always. Poor souls—I say of them. Poor soul—they say of me. It keeps us human. That is why I never tire of them.
SIR HARRY. [Comprehensively.] Bah! Kate, I tell you I'll be worth half a million yet.
KATE. I'm sure you will. You're getting stout, Harry.