Fred. (gravely). My dear Eve, is this giddiness quite consistent with the nature of the good work before us?
Eve. Mayn’t one be good and jolly too?
Fred. Scarcely. Grave work should be undertaken gravely, and with a sense of responsibility.
Eve. But I don’t call a school feast grave work.
Fred. All work is grave when one has regard to the issues that may come of it. This school feast, trivial as it may seem to you—this matter of buns and big plum cakes—may be productive, for instance, of much—of much—
Eve. Indigestion? That’s grave indeed! (He seems annoyed.) There, I’m very sorry I teased you, dear old boy; but you look at every thing from such a serious point of view.
Fred. Am I too serious? Perhaps I am. And yet in my quiet undemonstrative way I am very happy.
Eve. If you are not happy dear, who should be?
Fred. Yes, Eve, who indeed! (Kisses her.)
Eve. I did not mean that. There is very little in me to make such a man as you happy, unless it be the prospect of making me as good and earnest as yourself—a poor prospect, I’m afraid, for I’m a very silly little girl.