Viola. Ah, when everyone opposed our marriage. I married him for love, and because he was poor and "unsuitable." How could I know that his uncle would die and leave him money and a country house? Everything has turned out so well! It is rather hard to have made "a good match," as they say, without intending it. Of course, I never reproach him.
Muriel. No; you have been very nice about it.
Viola. Albert is perfectly happy, playing at being a country gentleman. He was so amazed to find there were real ducks and fowls in the country—and buttercups! He tells me everything. He boasts we tell each other everything. Oh! I should so like to have some little thing to conceal from him—some secret, just for fun! Of course I should tell him all about it afterwards, you know.
Muriel. I am sure you would, dear. You have dropped your handkerchief.
(Muriel picks up handkerchief, book, and paper-knife, and gives them to Viola.)
Viola. Dear Muriel, it is so nice to have you here. You are so calm, and soothing, and decorative, and you never take anyone away from anyone else!
Muriel. I think I have been rather unfortunate lately, Viola. No one seems to like me but middle-aged married men—often, too, with whiskers!
Viola. You mean poor Mr. Averidge? He has been married so long that he has forgotten all about it. To-night Claude Mignon is coming to stay with us. He is the most accomplished idiot in London. He sings, plays, paints, plays games, flirts—I think his flirting, though, has rather gone off. It is getting mechanical. By the way, have you an ideal, Muriel? I wonder what is your ideal?
Muriel (promptly and cheerfully). A man past his first youth, who has suffered; with iron-grey hair and weary eyes, who knows everything about life and could guide me, and would do exactly what I told him.
Viola. And mine is a young man of genius, just beginning life, with the world before him, who would look up to me as an inspiration—a guiding star!