He.—Love at least. Isn't that enough?
She.—I have said so.
He.—And you think so still?
She.—What do you think?
He.—What have I done? It means equal ruin to me, as the world reckons it—outcasting, the loss of my appointment, the breaking off 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?
He.—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?
