Blenkinsop.
How old are you, dear boy?
Freddie.
Twenty-two. Why?
Blenkinsop.
The delightful age when it’s still possible to feel desperately wicked. But you are old enough to have learnt that the moods of women are inscrutable.
Freddie.
Oh, rot! I never met a woman whom I couldn’t read at a glance.
Blenkinsop.
[Ironically.] Really?