Harold [disagreeably struck by the phrase]. Write me a letter? What for?
Anne [ingenuously]. Telling you that I have been mistaken. Releasing you from the engagement ... and you will write me an answer ... sad but manly ... reluctantly accepting my decision....
Harold. Oh, I am to write an answer, sad but manly—Good God! Suppose you don't release me after all.
Anne. Don't be silly, Harold. I promise. Can't you trust me?
Harold. Trust you? [His eyes travel quickly from the table littered with letters and dispatches to the flowers that ornament the room, back to the table and finally to the ring that now hangs conspicuously on her breast. She follows the look and instinctively puts her hand to the ring.] Trust you? By Jove, no, I don't trust you! This is absurd, I don't stay another moment. Say what you will to people. I'm off. This is final.
Anne [who has stepped to the window]. You can't go now. I hear Mother and Ruth coming.
Harold. All the more reason. [He finds his hat.] I bolt.
Anne [blocking the door]. You can't go, Harold! Don't corner me. I'll fight like a wildcat if you do.
Harold. Fight?
Anne. Yes. A pretty figure you'll cut if you bolt now. They'll think you a cad—an out and out cad! Haven't they seen your letters come week by week, and your presents? And you have written to Mother, too—I have your letter. There won't be anything bad enough to say about you. They'll say you jilted me for that English girl in Brazil. It will be true, too. And it will get about. She'll hear of it, I'll see to that—and then—