Hilda.
I wonder you haven't learnt to mind your own business, John.
John.
Don't you think it's rather rough on that poor little woman in Putney?
Hilda.
[With a suspicion of contempt.] I went down to see her. I thought she was vulgar and pretentious. I'm afraid I can't arouse any interest in her.
John.
[Gently.] She may be vulgar, but she told me her love was like music in her heart. Don't you think she must have suffered awfully to get hold of a thought like that?
Hilda.
[After a pause, changing suddenly both voice and manner.] And d'you think I've not suffered, John? I'm so unhappy.