Lucy. Why not?—Oh! you need not be afraid. I shouldn't have brought disgrace upon you by obliging you to acknowledge me before your grand friends. I took good care to keep in the background.
Harold. Do you mean to insinuate that I am a snob?
Lucy. Be a little kind.
Harold. Well, it is your own fault, you insinuate that——
Lucy. I was wrong. I apologise, but—but—[begins to cry].
Harold. There, don't make a scene—don't, there's a good girl. There, rest your head here. I suppose I am nasty. I didn't mean it, really. You must make allowances for me. I am worried and bothered. I can't work—at least I can't do work that satisfies me—and altogether I am not quite myself. Late hours are playing the very deuce with my nerves. There, let me kiss away the tears—now give me your promise that you will never be so foolish again.
Lucy. I—I promise. It is silly of me—now I am all right.
Harold. Giboulées d'Avril! The sun comes out once more, the shower is quite over.
Lucy. Yes, quite over; you always are so kind. It is my fault entirely. I—I think my nerves must be a little upset, too.
Harold. We shall make a nice couple, shan't we? if we are often going to behave like this! Now, are you quite calm?