And the fun of the
situation
comes in--where, my Lancelot?
Kipling - Poems
We can't get out of this place.
What is there to do?
"
Kurrell looked round the rat-pit of Kashima and made no reply. The
injured husband took up the wondrous tale.
"Ride on, and speak to Emma if you want to. God knows I don't care what
you do. "
He walked forward and left Kurrell gazing blankly after him. Kurrell did
not ride on either to see Mrs. Boulte or Mrs. Vansuythen. He sat in his
saddle and thought, while his pony grazed by the roadside.
The whir of approaching wheels roused him. Mrs. Vansuythen was driving
home Mrs. Boulte, white and wan, with a cut on her forehead.
"Stop, please," said Mrs. Boulte "I want to speak to Ted. "
Mrs. Vansuythen obeyed, but as Mrs. Boulte leaned forward, putting her
hand upon the splash-board of the dog-cart, Kurrell spoke.
"I've seen your husband, Mrs. Boulte. "
There was no necessity for any further explanation. The man's eyes were
fixed, not upon Mrs. Boulte, but her companion. Mrs. Boulte saw the
look.
"Speak to him! " she pleaded, turning to the woman at her side. "Oh,
speak to him! Tell him what you told me just now. Tell him you hate him.
Tell him you hate him! "
She bent forward and wept bitterly, while the sais, impassive, went
forward to hold the horse. Mrs. Vansuythen turned scarlet and dropped
the reins. She wished to be no party to such unholy explanations.
"I've nothing to do with it," she began, coldly; but Mrs. Boulte's sobs
overcame her, and she addressed herself to the man. "I don't know what
I am to say, Captain Kurrell. I don't know what I can call you. I think
you've--you've behaved abominably, and she has cut her forehead terribly
against the table. "
"It doesn't hurt. It isn't anything," said Mrs. Boulte feebly. "That
doesn't matter. Tell him what you told me. Say you don't care for him.
Oh, Ted, won't you believe her? "
"Mrs. Boulte has made me understand that you were--that you were fond of
her once upon a time," went on Mrs. Vansuythen.
"Well! " said Kurrell brutally. "It seems to me that Mrs. Boulte had
better be fond of her own husband first. "
"Stop! " said Mrs. Vansuythen. "Hear me first. I don't care--I don't want
to know anything about you and Mrs. Boulte; but I want you to know that
I hate you, that I think you are a cur, and that I'll never, never speak
to you again. Oh, I don't dare to say what I think of you, you--man!
_Sais,_ gorah _ko_ jane _do_. "
"I want to speak to Ted," moaned Mrs. Boulte, but the dog-cart rattled
on, and Kurrell was left on the road, shamed, and boiling with wrath
against Mrs. Boulte.
He waited till Mrs. Vansuythen was driving back to her own house,
and, she being freed from the embarrassment of Mrs. Boulte's presence,
learned for the second time her opinion of himself and his actions.
In the evenings, it was the wont of all Kashima to meet at the platform
on the Narkarra Road, to drink tea, and discuss the trivialities of
the day. Major Vansuythen and his wife found themselves alone at the
gathering-place for almost the first time in their remembrance; and
the cheery Major, in the teeth of his wife's remarkably reasonable
suggestion that the rest of the Station might be sick, insisted upon
driving round to the two bungalows and unearthing the population.
"Sitting in the twilight! " said he, with great indignation to the
Boultes. "That'll never do! Hang it all, we're one family here! You must
come out, and so must Kurrell. I'll make him bring his banjo. " So great
is the power of honest simplicity and a good digestion over guilty
consciences that all Kashima did turn out, even down to the banjo; and
the Major embraced the company in one expansive grin. As he grinned,
Mrs. Vansuythen raised her eyes for an instant and looked at all
Kashima. Her meaning was clear. Major Vansuythen would never know
anything. He was to be the outsider in that happy family whose cage was
the Dosehri hills.
"You're singing villainously out of tune, Kurrell," said the Major,
truthfully. "Pass me that banjo. "
And he sang in excruciating-wise till the stars came out and all Kashima
went to dinner.
* * * * *
That was the beginning of the New Life of Kashima--the life that Mrs.
Boulte made when her tongue was loosened in the twilight.
Mrs. Vansuythen has never told the Major; and since be insists upon
keeping up a burdensome geniality, she has been compelled to break her
vow of not speaking to Kurrell. This speech, which must of necessity
preserve the semblance of politeness and interest, serves admirably to
keep alive the flame of jealousy and dull hatred in Boulte's bosom, as
it awakens the same passions in his wife's heart. Mrs. Boulte hates
Mrs. Vansuythen because she has taken Ted from her, and, in some curious
fashion, hates her because Mrs. Vansuythen--and here the wife's eyes see
far more clearly than the husband's--detests Ted. And Ted--that gallant
captain and honorable man--knows now that it is possible to hate a woman
once loved, to the verge of wishing to silence her forever with blows.
Above all, is he shocked that Mrs. Boulte cannot see the error of her
ways.
Boulte and he go out tiger-shooting together in all friendship. Boulte
has put their relationship on a most satisfactory footing.
"You're a blackguard," he says to Kurrell, "and I've lost any
self-respect I may ever have had; but when you're with me, I can
feel certain that you are not with Mrs. Vansuythen, or making Emma
miserable. "
Kurrell endures anything that Boulte may say to him. Sometimes they are
away for three days together, and then the Major insists upon his
wife going over to sit with Mrs. Boulte; although Mrs. Vansuythen has
repeatedly declared that she prefers her husband's company to any in the
world. From the way in which she clings to him, she would certainly seem
to be speaking the truth.
But of course, as the Major says, "in a little Station we must all be
friendly. "
THE HILL OF ILLUSION
What rendered vain their deep desire?
A God, a God their severance ruled,
And bade between their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
--Matthew Arnold.
HE. Tell your jhampanis not to hurry so, dear. They forget I'm fresh
from the Plains.
SHE. Sure proof that I have not been going out with any one. Yes, they
are an untrained crew. Where do we go?
HE. As usual--to the world's end. No, Jakko.
SHE. Have your pony led after you, then. It's a long round.
HE. And for the last time, thank Heaven!
SHE. Do you mean that still? I didn't dare to write to you about
it. . . all these months.
HE. Mean it! I've been shaping my affairs to that end since Autumn. What
makes you speak as though it had occurred to you for the first time?
SHE. I! Oh! I don't know. I've had long enough to think, too.
HE. And you've changed your mind?
SHE. No. You ought to know that I am a miracle of constancy. What are
your--arrangements?
HE. Ours, Sweetheart, please.
SHE. Ours, be it then. My poor boy, how the prickly heat has marked your
forehead! Have you ever tried sulphate of copper in water?
HE. It'll go away in a day or two up here. The arrangements are simple
enough. Tonga in the early morning--reach Kalka at twelve--Umballa at
seven--down, straight by night train, to Bombay, and then the steamer of
the 21st for Rome. That's my idea. The Continent and Sweden--a ten-week
honeymoon.
SHE. Ssh! Don't talk of it in that way. It makes me afraid. Guy, how
long have we two been insane?
HE. Seven months and fourteen days; I forget the odd hours exactly, but
I'll think.
SHE. I only wanted to see if you remembered. Who are those two on the
Blessington Road?
HE. Eabrey and the Penner woman. What do they matter to us? Tell me
everything that you've been doing and saying and thinking.
SHE. Doing little, saying less, and thinking a great deal. I've hardly
been out at all.
Ha. That was wrong of you. You haven't been moping?
SHE. Not very much. Can you wonder that I'm disinclined for amusement?
HE. Frankly, I do. Where was the difficulty?
SHE. In this only. The more people I know and the more I'm known here,
the wider spread will be the news of the crash when it comes. I don't
like that.
HE. Nonsense. We shall be out of it.
SHE. You think so?
HE. I'm sure of it, if there is any power in steam or horse-flesh to
carry us away. Ha! ha!
SHE.
And the fun of the situation comes in--where, my Lancelot?
HE. Nowhere, Guinevere. I was only thinking of something.
SHE. They say men have a keener sense of humor than women. Now _I_ was
thinking of the scandal.
HE. Don't think of anything so ugly. We shall be beyond it.
SHE. It will be there all the same in the mouths of Simla--telegraphed
over India, and talked of at the dinners--and when He goes out they
will stare at Him to see how He takes it. And we shall be dead, Guy
dear--dead and cast into the outer darkness where there is--
HE. Love at least. Isn't that enough?
SHE. I have said so.
HE. And you think so still?
SHE. What do you think?
Ha. What have I _done_? It means equal ruin to me, as the world reckons
it--outcasting, the loss of my appointment, the breaking of my life's
work. I pay my price.
SHE. And are you so much above the world that you can afford to pay it?
Am I?
Ha. My Divinity--what else?
SHE. A very ordinary woman I'm afraid, but, so far, respectable. How'd
you do, Mrs. Middleditch? Your husband? I think he's riding down
to Annandale with Colonel Statters. Yes, isn't it divine after the
rain? --Guy, how long am I to be allowed to bow to Mrs. Middleditch? Till
the 17th?
HE. Frowsy Scotchwoman? What is the use of bringing her into the
discussion? You were saying?
SHE. Nothing. Have you ever seen a man hanged?
HE. Yes. Once.
SHE. What was it for?
HE. Murder, of course.
SHE. Murder. Is that so great a sin after all? I wonder how he felt
before the drop fell.
HE. I don't think he felt much. What a gruesome little woman it is this
evening! You're shivering. Put on your cape, dear.
SHE. I think I will. Oh! Look at the mist coming over Sanjaoli; and I
thought we should have sunshine on the Ladies' Mile! Let's turn back.
HE. What's the good? There's a cloud on Elysium Hill, and that means
it's foggy all down the Mall. We'll go on. It'll blow away before we get
to the Convent, perhaps. 'Jove! It is chilly.
SHE. You feel it, fresh from below. Put on your ulster. What do you
think of my cape?
HE. Never ask a man his opinion of a woman's dress when he is
desperately and abjectly in love with the wearer. Let me look. Like
everything else of yours it's perfect. Where did you get it from?
SHE. He gave it me, on Wednesday. . . our wedding-day, you know.
HE. The deuce He did! He's growing generous in his old age. D'you like
all that frilly, bunchy stuff at the throat? I don't.
SHE. Don't you?
"Kind Sir, O' your courtesy,
As you go by the town, Sir,
Pray you O' your love for me,
Buy me a russet gown, Sir. "
HE. I won't say: "Keek into the draw-well, Janet, Janet. " Only wait a
little, darling, and you shall be stocked with russet gowns and
everything else.
SHE. And when the frocks wear out, you'll get me new ones--and
everything else?
HE. Assuredly.
SHE. I wonder!
HE. Look here, Sweetheart, I didn't spend two days and two nights in
the train to hear you wonder. I thought we'd settled all that at
Shaifazehat.
SHE (dreamily). At Shaifazehat? Does the Station go on still? That
was ages and ages ago. It must be crumbling to pieces. All except the
Amirtollah kutcha road. I don't believe that could crumble till the Day
of Judgment.
Ha. You think so? What is the mood now?
SHE. I can't tell. How cold it is! Let us get on quickly.
Ha. Better walk a little. Stop your jhampanis and get out. What's the
matter with you this evening, dear?
SHE. Nothing. You must grow accustomed to my ways. If I'm boring you
I can go home. Here's Captain Congleton coming; I dare say he'll be
willing to escort me.
Ha. Goose! Between us, too! Damn Captain Congleton. There!
SHE. Chivalrous Knight! Is it your habit to swear much in talking? It
jars a little, and you might swear at me.
HE. My angel! I didn't know what I was saying; and you changed so
quickly that I couldn't follow. I'll apologize in dust and ashes.
SHE. There'll be enough of those later on. Good night, Captain
Congleton. Going to the singing-quadrilles already? What dances am I
giving you next week? No! You must have written them down wrong. Five
and Seven, I said. If you've made a mistake, I certainly don't intend to
suffer for it. You must alter your programme.
HE. I thought you told me that you had not been going out much this
season?
SHE. Quite true, but when I do I dance with Captain Congleton. He dances
very nicely.
HE. And sit out with him, I suppose?
SHE. Yes. Have you any objection? Shall I stand under the chandelier in
future?
HE. What does he talk to you about?
SHE. What do men talk about when they sit out?
Ha. Ugh! Don't! Well now I'm up, you must dispense with the fascinating
Congleton for a while. I don't like him.
SHE. (after a pause). Do you know what you have said?
HE. 'Can't say that I do exactly. I'm not in the best of tempers.
SHE. So I see. . . and feel. My true and faithful lover, where is your
"eternal constancy," "unalterable trust," and "reverent devotion"? I
remember those phrases; you seem to have forgotten them. I mention a
man's name--
HE. A good deal more than that.
SHE. Well, speak to him about a dance--perhaps the last dance that I
shall ever dance in my life before I. . . before I go away; and you at once
distrust and insult me.
HE. I never said a word.
SHE. How much did you imply? Guy, is this amount of confidence to be our
stock to start the new life on?
HE.
Kurrell looked round the rat-pit of Kashima and made no reply. The
injured husband took up the wondrous tale.
"Ride on, and speak to Emma if you want to. God knows I don't care what
you do. "
He walked forward and left Kurrell gazing blankly after him. Kurrell did
not ride on either to see Mrs. Boulte or Mrs. Vansuythen. He sat in his
saddle and thought, while his pony grazed by the roadside.
The whir of approaching wheels roused him. Mrs. Vansuythen was driving
home Mrs. Boulte, white and wan, with a cut on her forehead.
"Stop, please," said Mrs. Boulte "I want to speak to Ted. "
Mrs. Vansuythen obeyed, but as Mrs. Boulte leaned forward, putting her
hand upon the splash-board of the dog-cart, Kurrell spoke.
"I've seen your husband, Mrs. Boulte. "
There was no necessity for any further explanation. The man's eyes were
fixed, not upon Mrs. Boulte, but her companion. Mrs. Boulte saw the
look.
"Speak to him! " she pleaded, turning to the woman at her side. "Oh,
speak to him! Tell him what you told me just now. Tell him you hate him.
Tell him you hate him! "
She bent forward and wept bitterly, while the sais, impassive, went
forward to hold the horse. Mrs. Vansuythen turned scarlet and dropped
the reins. She wished to be no party to such unholy explanations.
"I've nothing to do with it," she began, coldly; but Mrs. Boulte's sobs
overcame her, and she addressed herself to the man. "I don't know what
I am to say, Captain Kurrell. I don't know what I can call you. I think
you've--you've behaved abominably, and she has cut her forehead terribly
against the table. "
"It doesn't hurt. It isn't anything," said Mrs. Boulte feebly. "That
doesn't matter. Tell him what you told me. Say you don't care for him.
Oh, Ted, won't you believe her? "
"Mrs. Boulte has made me understand that you were--that you were fond of
her once upon a time," went on Mrs. Vansuythen.
"Well! " said Kurrell brutally. "It seems to me that Mrs. Boulte had
better be fond of her own husband first. "
"Stop! " said Mrs. Vansuythen. "Hear me first. I don't care--I don't want
to know anything about you and Mrs. Boulte; but I want you to know that
I hate you, that I think you are a cur, and that I'll never, never speak
to you again. Oh, I don't dare to say what I think of you, you--man!
_Sais,_ gorah _ko_ jane _do_. "
"I want to speak to Ted," moaned Mrs. Boulte, but the dog-cart rattled
on, and Kurrell was left on the road, shamed, and boiling with wrath
against Mrs. Boulte.
He waited till Mrs. Vansuythen was driving back to her own house,
and, she being freed from the embarrassment of Mrs. Boulte's presence,
learned for the second time her opinion of himself and his actions.
In the evenings, it was the wont of all Kashima to meet at the platform
on the Narkarra Road, to drink tea, and discuss the trivialities of
the day. Major Vansuythen and his wife found themselves alone at the
gathering-place for almost the first time in their remembrance; and
the cheery Major, in the teeth of his wife's remarkably reasonable
suggestion that the rest of the Station might be sick, insisted upon
driving round to the two bungalows and unearthing the population.
"Sitting in the twilight! " said he, with great indignation to the
Boultes. "That'll never do! Hang it all, we're one family here! You must
come out, and so must Kurrell. I'll make him bring his banjo. " So great
is the power of honest simplicity and a good digestion over guilty
consciences that all Kashima did turn out, even down to the banjo; and
the Major embraced the company in one expansive grin. As he grinned,
Mrs. Vansuythen raised her eyes for an instant and looked at all
Kashima. Her meaning was clear. Major Vansuythen would never know
anything. He was to be the outsider in that happy family whose cage was
the Dosehri hills.
"You're singing villainously out of tune, Kurrell," said the Major,
truthfully. "Pass me that banjo. "
And he sang in excruciating-wise till the stars came out and all Kashima
went to dinner.
* * * * *
That was the beginning of the New Life of Kashima--the life that Mrs.
Boulte made when her tongue was loosened in the twilight.
Mrs. Vansuythen has never told the Major; and since be insists upon
keeping up a burdensome geniality, she has been compelled to break her
vow of not speaking to Kurrell. This speech, which must of necessity
preserve the semblance of politeness and interest, serves admirably to
keep alive the flame of jealousy and dull hatred in Boulte's bosom, as
it awakens the same passions in his wife's heart. Mrs. Boulte hates
Mrs. Vansuythen because she has taken Ted from her, and, in some curious
fashion, hates her because Mrs. Vansuythen--and here the wife's eyes see
far more clearly than the husband's--detests Ted. And Ted--that gallant
captain and honorable man--knows now that it is possible to hate a woman
once loved, to the verge of wishing to silence her forever with blows.
Above all, is he shocked that Mrs. Boulte cannot see the error of her
ways.
Boulte and he go out tiger-shooting together in all friendship. Boulte
has put their relationship on a most satisfactory footing.
"You're a blackguard," he says to Kurrell, "and I've lost any
self-respect I may ever have had; but when you're with me, I can
feel certain that you are not with Mrs. Vansuythen, or making Emma
miserable. "
Kurrell endures anything that Boulte may say to him. Sometimes they are
away for three days together, and then the Major insists upon his
wife going over to sit with Mrs. Boulte; although Mrs. Vansuythen has
repeatedly declared that she prefers her husband's company to any in the
world. From the way in which she clings to him, she would certainly seem
to be speaking the truth.
But of course, as the Major says, "in a little Station we must all be
friendly. "
THE HILL OF ILLUSION
What rendered vain their deep desire?
A God, a God their severance ruled,
And bade between their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
--Matthew Arnold.
HE. Tell your jhampanis not to hurry so, dear. They forget I'm fresh
from the Plains.
SHE. Sure proof that I have not been going out with any one. Yes, they
are an untrained crew. Where do we go?
HE. As usual--to the world's end. No, Jakko.
SHE. Have your pony led after you, then. It's a long round.
HE. And for the last time, thank Heaven!
SHE. Do you mean that still? I didn't dare to write to you about
it. . . all these months.
HE. Mean it! I've been shaping my affairs to that end since Autumn. What
makes you speak as though it had occurred to you for the first time?
SHE. I! Oh! I don't know. I've had long enough to think, too.
HE. And you've changed your mind?
SHE. No. You ought to know that I am a miracle of constancy. What are
your--arrangements?
HE. Ours, Sweetheart, please.
SHE. Ours, be it then. My poor boy, how the prickly heat has marked your
forehead! Have you ever tried sulphate of copper in water?
HE. It'll go away in a day or two up here. The arrangements are simple
enough. Tonga in the early morning--reach Kalka at twelve--Umballa at
seven--down, straight by night train, to Bombay, and then the steamer of
the 21st for Rome. That's my idea. The Continent and Sweden--a ten-week
honeymoon.
SHE. Ssh! Don't talk of it in that way. It makes me afraid. Guy, how
long have we two been insane?
HE. Seven months and fourteen days; I forget the odd hours exactly, but
I'll think.
SHE. I only wanted to see if you remembered. Who are those two on the
Blessington Road?
HE. Eabrey and the Penner woman. What do they matter to us? Tell me
everything that you've been doing and saying and thinking.
SHE. Doing little, saying less, and thinking a great deal. I've hardly
been out at all.
Ha. That was wrong of you. You haven't been moping?
SHE. Not very much. Can you wonder that I'm disinclined for amusement?
HE. Frankly, I do. Where was the difficulty?
SHE. In this only. The more people I know and the more I'm known here,
the wider spread will be the news of the crash when it comes. I don't
like that.
HE. Nonsense. We shall be out of it.
SHE. You think so?
HE. I'm sure of it, if there is any power in steam or horse-flesh to
carry us away. Ha! ha!
SHE.
And the fun of the situation comes in--where, my Lancelot?
HE. Nowhere, Guinevere. I was only thinking of something.
SHE. They say men have a keener sense of humor than women. Now _I_ was
thinking of the scandal.
HE. Don't think of anything so ugly. We shall be beyond it.
SHE. It will be there all the same in the mouths of Simla--telegraphed
over India, and talked of at the dinners--and when He goes out they
will stare at Him to see how He takes it. And we shall be dead, Guy
dear--dead and cast into the outer darkness where there is--
HE. Love at least. Isn't that enough?
SHE. I have said so.
HE. And you think so still?
SHE. What do you think?
Ha. What have I _done_? It means equal ruin to me, as the world reckons
it--outcasting, the loss of my appointment, the breaking of my life's
work. I pay my price.
SHE. And are you so much above the world that you can afford to pay it?
Am I?
Ha. My Divinity--what else?
SHE. A very ordinary woman I'm afraid, but, so far, respectable. How'd
you do, Mrs. Middleditch? Your husband? I think he's riding down
to Annandale with Colonel Statters. Yes, isn't it divine after the
rain? --Guy, how long am I to be allowed to bow to Mrs. Middleditch? Till
the 17th?
HE. Frowsy Scotchwoman? What is the use of bringing her into the
discussion? You were saying?
SHE. Nothing. Have you ever seen a man hanged?
HE. Yes. Once.
SHE. What was it for?
HE. Murder, of course.
SHE. Murder. Is that so great a sin after all? I wonder how he felt
before the drop fell.
HE. I don't think he felt much. What a gruesome little woman it is this
evening! You're shivering. Put on your cape, dear.
SHE. I think I will. Oh! Look at the mist coming over Sanjaoli; and I
thought we should have sunshine on the Ladies' Mile! Let's turn back.
HE. What's the good? There's a cloud on Elysium Hill, and that means
it's foggy all down the Mall. We'll go on. It'll blow away before we get
to the Convent, perhaps. 'Jove! It is chilly.
SHE. You feel it, fresh from below. Put on your ulster. What do you
think of my cape?
HE. Never ask a man his opinion of a woman's dress when he is
desperately and abjectly in love with the wearer. Let me look. Like
everything else of yours it's perfect. Where did you get it from?
SHE. He gave it me, on Wednesday. . . our wedding-day, you know.
HE. The deuce He did! He's growing generous in his old age. D'you like
all that frilly, bunchy stuff at the throat? I don't.
SHE. Don't you?
"Kind Sir, O' your courtesy,
As you go by the town, Sir,
Pray you O' your love for me,
Buy me a russet gown, Sir. "
HE. I won't say: "Keek into the draw-well, Janet, Janet. " Only wait a
little, darling, and you shall be stocked with russet gowns and
everything else.
SHE. And when the frocks wear out, you'll get me new ones--and
everything else?
HE. Assuredly.
SHE. I wonder!
HE. Look here, Sweetheart, I didn't spend two days and two nights in
the train to hear you wonder. I thought we'd settled all that at
Shaifazehat.
SHE (dreamily). At Shaifazehat? Does the Station go on still? That
was ages and ages ago. It must be crumbling to pieces. All except the
Amirtollah kutcha road. I don't believe that could crumble till the Day
of Judgment.
Ha. You think so? What is the mood now?
SHE. I can't tell. How cold it is! Let us get on quickly.
Ha. Better walk a little. Stop your jhampanis and get out. What's the
matter with you this evening, dear?
SHE. Nothing. You must grow accustomed to my ways. If I'm boring you
I can go home. Here's Captain Congleton coming; I dare say he'll be
willing to escort me.
Ha. Goose! Between us, too! Damn Captain Congleton. There!
SHE. Chivalrous Knight! Is it your habit to swear much in talking? It
jars a little, and you might swear at me.
HE. My angel! I didn't know what I was saying; and you changed so
quickly that I couldn't follow. I'll apologize in dust and ashes.
SHE. There'll be enough of those later on. Good night, Captain
Congleton. Going to the singing-quadrilles already? What dances am I
giving you next week? No! You must have written them down wrong. Five
and Seven, I said. If you've made a mistake, I certainly don't intend to
suffer for it. You must alter your programme.
HE. I thought you told me that you had not been going out much this
season?
SHE. Quite true, but when I do I dance with Captain Congleton. He dances
very nicely.
HE. And sit out with him, I suppose?
SHE. Yes. Have you any objection? Shall I stand under the chandelier in
future?
HE. What does he talk to you about?
SHE. What do men talk about when they sit out?
Ha. Ugh! Don't! Well now I'm up, you must dispense with the fascinating
Congleton for a while. I don't like him.
SHE. (after a pause). Do you know what you have said?
HE. 'Can't say that I do exactly. I'm not in the best of tempers.
SHE. So I see. . . and feel. My true and faithful lover, where is your
"eternal constancy," "unalterable trust," and "reverent devotion"? I
remember those phrases; you seem to have forgotten them. I mention a
man's name--
HE. A good deal more than that.
SHE. Well, speak to him about a dance--perhaps the last dance that I
shall ever dance in my life before I. . . before I go away; and you at once
distrust and insult me.
HE. I never said a word.
SHE. How much did you imply? Guy, is this amount of confidence to be our
stock to start the new life on?
HE.
