She.—How much did you imply? Guy, is this amount of confidence to be our stock to start the new life on?
He.—No, of course not. I didn't mean that. On my word and honour I didn't. Let it pass, dear. Please let it pass.
She.—This once—yes—and a second time, and again and again, all through the years when I shall be unable to resent it. You want too much, my Lancelot, andyou know too much.
He.—How do you mean?
She.—That is a part of the punishment. There cannot be perfect trust between us.
He.—In Heaven's name, why not?
She.—Hush! The other Place is quite enough. Ask yourself.
He.—I don't follow.
She.—You trust me so implicitly that when I look at another man Never mind. Guy, have you ever made love to a girl—a good girl?
He.—Something of the sort. Centuries ago—in the Dark Ages, before I ever met you, dear.
She.—Tell me what you said to her.
He.—What does a man say to a girl? I've forgotten.
She.—I remember. He tells her that he trusts her and worships the ground she walks on, and that he'll love and honour and protect her till her dying day; and so she marries in that belief. At least, I speak of one girl who was not protected.
He.—Well, and then?
She.—And then, Guy, and then, that girl needs ten times the love and trust and honour—yes, honour—that was enough when she was only a mere wife if—if—the second life she elects to lead is to be made even bearable. Do you understand?
He.—Even bearable! It'll be Paradise.
She.—Ah! Can you give me all I've asked for—not now,
