Serlo.
It never struck you that it’s devilish hard to be a marquess with no means of livelihood but your title. And the worst of a title is that it’ll get you plenty of credit, but dooced little hard cash.
Ethel.
I never thought of that.
Serlo.
Well, look here, what I wanted to say is this: it’s no business of mine about the Archduke. You know, I don’t know much about royalty, but I don’t think a foreign prince is likely to marry the daughter of nobody in particular just because she’s got nice eyes and a pot of money. [Ethel is about to speak.] No, let me go on. You may be going to have a rotten time, and I just want you to know that if at any time you want me—well, you know what I mean, don’t you. Let’s forget that you’re an heiress, and I’m an old-established marquess. You’re an awfully ripping sort, and I’m just Ned Serlo. I’m not a bad sort either, and perhaps we might be happy together.
Ethel.
[Touched.] It’s very charming of you. I’m so glad that I know you better now. Whatever happens I know I can count on you.
Serlo.
That’s all right then. Meanwhile noble lord’s goin’ to hook it—leave the coast clear, and bear it like a man, don’t you know.