He. And what now?

She. What do you think of me?

He. Beside the question altogether. What do you intend to do?

She. I daren’t risk it. I’m afraid. If I could only cheat—

He. ÀA la Buzgago? No, thanks. That’s the one point on which I have any notion of Honour. I won’t eat his salt and steal too. I’ll loot openly or not at all.

She. I never meant anything else.

He. Then, why in the world do you pretend not to be willing to come?

She. It’s not pretence, Guy. I am afraid.

He. Please explain.

She. It can’t last, Guy. It can’t last. You’ll get angry, and then you’ll swear, and then you’ll get jealous, and then you’ll mistrust me—you do now—and you yourself will be the best reason for doubting. And I—what shall I do? I shall be no better than Mrs. Buzgago found out—no better than any one. And you’ll know that. Oh, Guy, can’t you see?

He I see that you are desperately unreasonable, little woman.

She. There! The moment I begin to object, you get angry. What will you do when I am only your property—stolen property? It can’t be, Guy. It can’t be! I thought it could, but it can’t. You’ll get tired of me.

He I tell you I shall not. Won’t anything make you understand that?

She. There, can’t you see? If you speak to me like that now, you’ll call me horrible names later, if I don’t do everything as you like. And if you were cruel to me, Guy, where should I go?— where should I go? I can’t trust you. Oh! I can’t trust you!

He. I suppose I ought to say that I can trust you. I’ve ample reason.

She. Please don’t, dear. It hurts as much as if you hit me.

He. It isn’t exactly pleasant for me.

She. I can’t help it. I wish I were dead! I can’t trust you, and I don’t trust myself. Oh, Guy, let it die away and be forgotten!

He. Too late now. I don’t understand you— I won’t—and I can’t trust myself to talk this evening. May I call to-morrow?

She. Yes. No! Oh, give me time! The day after. I get into my ’rickshaw here and meet Him at Peliti’s. You ride.

He. I’ll go on to Peliti’s too. I think I want a drink. My world’s knocked about my ears and the stars are falling. Who are those brutes howling in the Old Library?

She. They’re rehearsing the singing-quadrilles for the Fancy Ball. Can’t you hear Mrs. Buzgago’s voice? She has a solo. It’s quite a new idea. Listen!

Mrs. Buzgago (in the Old Library, con molt. exp.).