Miss Ramsey, with starting tears: "It doesn't matter now." She has let her lovely length trail into the corner of the sofa, where she desperately reclines, supporting her elbow on the arm of it, and resting her drooping head on her hand. He draws a hassock up in front of her, and sits on it.
Ashley: "This represents kneeling at your feet. One doesn't do it literally any more, you know."
Miss Ramsey, in a hollow voice: "I should despise you if you did, and"—deeply murmurous—"I don't wish to despise you."
Ashley: "No, I understand that. You merely wish me to despise you. But why?"
Miss Ramsey, nervously: "You know."
Ashley: "But I don't know—Isobel, dearest, darling, if you will allow me to express myself so fully. How should I know?"
Miss Ramsey: "I've told you."
Ashley: "May I take your hand? For good-by!" He possesses himself of it. "It seems to go along with those expressions."
Miss Ramsey, self-contemptuously: "Oh yes."
Ashley: "Thank you. Where were we?"