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 anyone. 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?
