Lucy. Yes, quite.
Harold. That's right, because I want you to listen patiently for a few minutes to what I am going to say; it is something I want to talk to you about very seriously. You won't interrupt me until I have quite finished, will you?
Lucy. What is it? not that—no, I won't.
Harold. You know we talked about—I mean it was arranged we should be married the beginning of July—wasn't it?
Lucy. Yes.
Harold. Well, I want to know if you would mind very much putting it off a little—quite a little—only till the autumn? I'll tell you why. Of course if you do mind very much, I sha'n't press it, but—it's like this: the scene of my new book is, as you know, laid abroad. I have been trying to write it, but can't get on with it one little bit. I want some local colour. I thought I should be able to invent it, I find I can't. It is hampering and keeping me back terribly. And so—and so I thought if you didn't mind very much that—that if I were to go to France for—for six months or so—alone, that—in fact it would be the making of me. I have never had an opportunity before; it has always been grind, grind, grind, and if I am prevented from going now, I may never have a chance again. What do you say?
Lucy. But why shouldn't we be married as arranged, and spend our honeymoon over there?
Harold. Because I want to work.
Lucy. And would my being there prevent you? You used to say you always worked so much better when I was——
Harold. But you don't understand. This is different. I want to work hard, and no man could do that on his honeymoon—at least I know I couldn't.