How d’you do? You cynic.
Blenkinsop.
I’m nothing of the sort. But I occasionally tell the truth.
Lady Sellenger.
You’re the most cynical man in London, and I’m frightened to death of you.
Blenkinsop.
There’s nothing the world loves more than a ready-made description which they can hang on to a man, and so save themselves all trouble in future. When I was quite young it occurred to some one that I was a cynic, and since then I’ve never been able to remark that it was a fine day without being accused of odious cynicism.
Lady Sellenger.
My dear Mr. Blenkinsop, what every one says is always true. That is one of the foundations of society.
Blenkinsop.