Harold. No, I don't think that will be your end. [Puts down the book.] You are not going to the dustbin, you are going to be a success. No more hack work for me after this. Why, supposing only the first edition is sold, I more than clear expenses, and if it runs to two—ten—twenty editions, I shall receive—the amount fairly takes my breath away. Twentieth thousand; doesn't it sound fine? We shall have our mansion in Grosvenor Square yet, Luce; and that charming, little old house we saw the other day up the river—we'll have that, too; so that we can run down here from Saturday to Monday, to get away from London fog and nastiness. Yes, I am going to be rich some day—rich—in ten years' time, if this book gets a fair start and I have anything like decent luck, I shall be the best known author in England. [Rises.] The son of the old bookseller who failed will be able then to repay those who helped him when he wanted help, and, more delightful thought still, pay back those with interest who did their best to keep him down, when they could just as easily have helped him to rise. I am going to have a success, I feel it. In a few weeks' time I'll bring you a batch of criticisms that will astonish you. But what is the matter? why so silent all of a sudden? has my long and conceited tirade disgusted you?
Lucy. No, not at all.
Harold. Then what is it?
Lucy. I was only thinking that—[hesitates].
Harold. Thinking what? About me:
Lucy. Yes, about you and—and also about myself.
Harold. That is just as it should be, about us two together.
Lucy. Yes, but I was afraid——
Harold. [Smiling.] Afraid! what of?
Lucy. Nothing, nothing really. I am ashamed that—let me give you some more tea.