Miss C. L. I think we'd better take a cab back, don't you?
Mr. Forr. (horrified). M—much jollier walking. Streets as dry as a bone!
Miss C. L. But I want to get home and arrange the table for dinner to-night. Mother always likes me to do the flowers.
Mr. Forr. Lots of time for that You c—can't judge of the effect till it's dark, can you? And it will be light for hours to come.
Miss C. L. Yes, that's true. Then suppose we go and see the Burne-Joneses, now we're so near? They don't close till six.
Mr. Forr. (to himself). It would have been jolly; but, half-a-crown, when I can't even run to a catalogue! No! (Aloud.) It—it's getting so dark—can't do 'em justice by artificial light, do you think? And—well, to tell you the honest truth, Camille, after the Old Masters, you know—I—I don't feel—and I have seen them, you know!
Miss C. L. (pouting). I thought you might have cared to see them again—with Me—but it doesn't in the least matter ... Fred, I don't care about this cake you got me—it's dull. I think I shall leave it, and try one of these white-and-green ones instead. [She does.
Mr. Forr. (to himself—with a beaded brow). Broke! And for an extra twopence! As likely as not, she hasn't even got her purse with her. And she'll think I'm so beastly mean! Why on earth didn't I let her go to the Aërated Bread-shop, as she wanted? It would have been all right then!
Miss C. L. I'm afraid you're rather bored, Fred—you don't seem to be enjoying yourself quite; do you?
Mr. Forr. (in agony). Oh, I am—I'm all right, Camille, only I—I'm always like this after the Old Masters, you know.