Janet.  If nothing comes of all this—­

Carve.  All what?

Janet.  All this illness and nursing and sitting up at nights,—­then I’m just your cousin, and no harm done.

Carve.  But do you mean to say you’d—­

Janet. (Stopping-him.) Not so fast! (Pause.  She continues reflectively.) Do you know what struck me while her ladyship was telling you about all the grand doings at the funeral—­What good has it ever done him to be celebrated and make a big splash in the world?  Was he any happier for it?  From all I can hear he was always trying to hide just as if the police were after him.  He never had the slightest notion of comfort, and so you needn’t tell me!  And there’s another thing—­you needn’t tell me he wasn’t always worrying about some girl or other, because I know he was.  A bachelor at his age never thinks about anything else—­morning, noon, and night.  It stands to reason—­and they can say what they like—­I know.  And now he’s dead—­probably because he’d no notion of looking after himself, and it’s been in all the papers how wonderful he was, and florists’ girls have very likely sat up half the night making wreaths, and Westminster Abbey was crowded out with fashionable folk—­and do you know what all those fashionable folk are thinking about just now—­tea!  And if it isn’t tea, it’s whisky and soda.

Carve.  But you mustn’t forget that he was really very successful indeed....  Just look at the money he made, for instance.

Janet.  Well, if sovereigns had been any use to him he’d never have left two hundred thousand of them behind him—­him with no family.  No, he was no better than a fool with money.  Couldn’t even spend it.

Carve.  He had the supreme satisfaction of doing what he enjoyed doing better than anybody else could do it.

Janet.  And what was that?

Carve.  Painting.

Janet. (Casually.) Oh! and couldn’t he have had that without running about all over Europe?  He might just as well have been a commercial traveller.  Take my word for it, Mr. Shawn, there’s nothing like a comfortable home and a quiet life—­and the less you’re in the newspapers the better.

Carve. (Thoughtfully.) Do you know—­a good deal of what you say applies to me.

Janet.  And you now!  As we’re on the subject—­before we go any further—­you’re a bachelor of forty-five, same as him.  What have you been doing with yourself lately?

Carve.  Doing with myself?

Janet.  Well, I think I ought to ask because when I was stealing (with a little nervous laugh) the money out of your pocket to pay that hotel bill, I came across a lady’s photograph.  I couldn’t help coming across it.  Seeing how things are, I think I ought to ask.

Carve.  Oh, that!  It must be a photograph of the lady he was engaged to.  He broke it off, you know.  That was why we came to London in such a hurry.