SIR GEOFFREY.  That’s a good idea—­yes, that’s much better.

LADY TORMINSTER.  And, if you find that you really cannot come back—­

SIR GEOFFREY.  Exactly; you’ll forward my goods and chattels.  And old Jack will ascribe it all to my wayward mood; he’ll think I have found it too dull down here.  I’m immensely obliged.

LADY TORMINSTER. [With a smile.] Remark that I’ve not offered to be a sister to you.

SIR GEOFFREY.  You’ve been superb.  Oh, the good talk we’ve had!  Do you know, I could almost wish old Jack to have heard what I said.  I’m so fond of him, that grand old fellow, that I’ve been on the point of telling him, myself, more than once.  For you know he will have me take you about, and it’s painful.  Besides, I’ve felt it almost disloyal to—­keep this thing from him.  You understand, don’t you?

LADY TORMINSTER.  Yes.

SIR GEOFFREY.  He and I almost are one, you see.  It’s not British to show any feeling, but really I—­love him.  And the devil comes along, and, of all women in the world, singles out Jack’s wife, and fills my heart with her.  That’s the devil’s sense of humour.

LADY TORMINSTER.  Perhaps he has read Bernard Shaw.  But you must never let Jack know—­never.

SIR GEOFFREY.  I suppose not.  He’s so direct, so single-minded, that the shock would be terrible.  But I’m not to blame.  How could I help it?  Oh, all that cackle about being master of one’s fate!

LADY TORMINSTER.  Two years in China—­

SIR GEOFFREY.  We’ll hope so.  Of course, it didn’t matter about my telling you, because you knew already.

LADY TORMINSTER. [Nodding] Yes, I knew.  Although—­

SIR GEOFFREY.  Oh, you’ve done what you could!  I’ve felt, in a hundred subtle ways, how you almost implored me—­not to.  Well, there it is.  I’ll write that note at once.

     [He sits at the table and begins to write.

LADY TORMINSTER.  I’m sorry you are so lonely.

SIR GEOFFREY.  That’s my fault, too—­the fault of the ridiculous class to which we belong.  I don’t do anything.

LADY TORMINSTER.  Why not?

SIR GEOFFREY.  What would you have me do?  Go into the House?  Thank you, I’ve been there.  You spend your time on the Terrace or in the smoke-room till a muffin-bell rings; then you gravely walk into the lobby, where an energetic gentleman counts you as Polyphemus counted his sheep.  Philanthropy!  Well, I’ve tried that, but it’s not in my line.  I’m quite a respectable landlord, but a fellow can’t live all by himself in a great Elizabethan barrack.  Town—­the Season?  Christian mothers invite you to inspect their daughters’ shoulders, with a view to purchase.  I’m tired of golf and polo; I’m tired of bridge.  So I’ll try the good sea and the open plains; sleep in a tent and watch the stars twinkle—­the stars that make you afraid.

LADY TORMINSTER.  Yes, I’m afraid of the stars.