Harold. It is your fault. My finger wouldn't have done it by itself. Are you going to be silly any more?
Lucy. No, I am not.
Harold. And you are going to love me, believe in me, and trust me?
Lucy. I do all three—implicitly.
Harold. [He kisses her.] The seal of the trinity. [Looks at his watch.] By jove, I must be going.
Lucy. So soon?
Harold. Rather; I have to dine in Berkeley Square at eight o'clock, at Sir Humphrey Mockton's. You would like their house, it's a beauty, a seventeenth or eighteenth century one, with such a gorgeous old staircase. He's awfully rich, and just a little bit vulgar—“wool” I think it was, or “cottons,” or some other commodity; but his daughter is charming—I should say daughters, as there are two of them, so you needn't be jealous.
Lucy. Jealous? of course I am not. Have you known them long?
Harold. Oh! some little time. They are awfully keen to see my book. I am going to take—send them a copy. You see I must be civil to these people, they know such an awful lot of the right sort; and their recommendation of a book will have more weight than fifty advertisements. So good-bye. [Takes his overcoat.]
Lucy. Let me help you. But you are going without noticing my flowers.