Lucy. I am so sorry. If I had thought——
Harold. Can't you see that you are driving me mad? I have been here half an hour, and the whole of the time it has been nothing but reproaches.
Lucy. I don't think they would have affected you so much if you hadn't felt that you deserved them!
Harold. There you go again! I deserve them—[laughs harshly]. It is my fault, I suppose, that it is the season; it is my fault that people give dinner-parties and balls; it is my fault, I suppose, that you don't go out as much as I do?
Lucy. Certainly not; although, as a matter of fact, I haven't been out one single evening for the last three—nearly four—months.
Harold. That's right; draw comparisons; say I'm a selfish brute. You'll tell me next that I am tired of you, and——
Lucy. Harold! don't, don't—you—you hurt me! Of course I never thought of such a—[she rises]—You are not, are you? I—I couldn't bear it!
Harold. Of course I am not. Don't be so silly. [He sits.]
Lucy. It was silly of me, I confess it. I know you better than that. Why, it's rank high treason, I deserve to lose my head; and my only excuse is that thinking such a thing proves I must have lost it already. Will your majesty deign to pardon?
Harold. [Testily.] Yes, yes, that's all right! There, look out, you'll crumple my tie.