Phill. Andromeda? They were talking of that downstairs. What's made you take to scribbling, James?
Spurr. Scribbling? how do you mean? My handwriting's easy enough to read, as you ought to know very well.
Phill. You can't expect me to remember what your writing's like; it's so long since I've seen it!
Spurr. Come, I like that! When I wrote twice to say I was sorry we'd fallen out; and never got a word back!
Phill. If you'd written to the addresses I gave you abroad——
Spurr. Then you did write; but none of the letters reached me. I never even knew you'd gone abroad. I wrote to the old place. And so did you, I suppose, not knowing I'd moved my lodgings too, so naturally—— But what does it all matter so long as we've met and it's all right between us? Oh, my dear girl, if you only knew how I'd worried myself, thinking you were—— Well, all that's over now, isn't it?
[He attempts to embrace her.
Phill. (repulsing him). Not quite so fast, James. Before I say whether we're to be as we were or not, I want to know a little more about you. You wouldn't be here like this if you hadn't done something to distinguish yourself.
Spurr. Well, I don't say I mayn't have got a certain amount of what they call "kudos," owing to Andromeda. But what difference does that make?
Phill. Tell me, James, is it you that's been writing a pink book all over silver cutlets?