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      Are merely another proof of my passion for duty. The British public wants its poets to lead romantic lives.

      Hilda.

      Are you ever serious?

      Brackley.

      May I come to lunch with you on Thursday?

      Hilda.

      [A little surprised.] Certainly. But why on Thursday?

      Brackley.

      Because on that day I intend to ask you to marry me.

      Hilda.

      [With a smile.] I'm sorry, I've just remembered that I'm lunching out.

      Brackley.

      You break my heart.

      Hilda.

      On the contrary, I provide you with the materials for a sonnet.

      Brackley.

      Won't you marry me?

      Hilda.

      No.

      Brackley.

      Why not?

      Hilda.

      [Amused.] I'm not in the least in love with you.

      Brackley.

      People who propose to marry should ask themselves if they can look forward with equanimity to breakfasting opposite one another for an indefinite number of years.

      Hilda.

      You're very unromantic.

      Brackley.

      My dear lady, if you want romance I'll send you my complete works bound in vellum. I've ground out ten volumes of romance to Phyllis and Chloe and heaven knows who. The Lord save me from a romantic wife.

      Hilda.

      But I'm afraid I'm hopelessly romantic.

      Brackley.

      Well, six months of marriage with a poet will cure you.

      Hilda.

      I'd rather not be cured.

      Brackley.

      Won't you be in to luncheon on Thursday?

      Hilda.

      No.

      [The Butler comes in.

      Butler.

      Mr. Halliwell, Mr. Kent.

      [Basil and John appear, and at the same moment Mabel comes in from the room in which she has been telephoning.

      Mabel.

      [To John.] Wretched creature! I've been trying to ring you up.

      John.

      Have I kept you waiting? I went down to Chancery Lane with Basil.

      [John turns to shake hands with Hilda and Brackley, while Basil, who has said how d'you do to Hilda, comes down to speak to Mabel. The conversation between Mabel and Basil is in an undertone.

      Basil.

      How d'you do. You must scold me for keeping John so long.

      Mabel.

      I didn't really want him, you know.

      Basil.

      [Pointing with his head to Brackley.] I say, who is that?

      Mabel.

      Robert Brackley. Don't you know him?

      Basil.

      The poet?

      Mabel.

      Of course. They say he'd have been given the Laureateship if it hadn't been abolished at Tennyson's death.

      Basil.

      [Tightening his lips.] He's rather a low blackguard, isn't he?

      Mabel.

      Heavens, what's the matter with him, poor man? He's Hilda's latest celebrity. He pretends to adore her.

      Basil.

      Don't you remember the Grange case that he was mixed up in?

      Mabel.

      [In tones of surprise.] But, my dear Mr. Kent, that was two years ago.

      Hilda.

      Mr. Kent, I want to introduce you to Mr. Brackley.

      Basil.

      [Going up.] How d'you do.

      [John comes down to his wife.

      Mabel.

      Wretched creature!

      John.

      I say, Mabel, is Basil often here?

      Mabel.

      I don't know. I met him here last week.

      John.

      Why the Dickens does he come? He's got no business to.

      Mabel.

      You brought him yourself to-day.

      John.

      I didn't. He insisted on coming—when I said I had to fetch you.

      Mabel.

      Perhaps he came to see me.

      John.

      Fiddledidee! I think you ought to speak to Hilda about it.

      Mabel.

      My dear John, are you mad? She'd jump down my throat.

      John.

      Why does she let him hang about her? She must know she's turning his silly head.

      Mabel.

      I daresay she wants to prove to him that he showed very bad taste a year ago. It is rather annoying when you're attached to a young man that he should go and marry somebody else.

      John.

      Well, I don't think she's playing the game, and I shall tell her so.

      Mabel.

      She'll snub you awfully.

      John.

      I don't care.... Look here, you make a diversion so that I can get hold of her.

      Mabel.

      How?

      John.

      [Dryly.] I don't know. Exercise your invention.

      Mabel.

      [Going towards the others.] Hilda, John is clamouring for some tea.

      Hilda.

      [Coming down.] Why on earth can't he help himself?

      John.

      My native modesty prevents.

      Hilda.

      That's quite a new trait in you.

      [Hilda sits down and pours out tea for John. He looks at her silently.

      Hilda.

      You've been lunching at Richmond?

      John.

      Yes.... Then I went on to Putney.

      Hilda.

      You've been making quite a day of it.

      John.

      [Taking the cup.] I say, old gal—you're not going to make a fool of yourself, are you?

      Hilda.

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