Broadbent.  Yes:  that’s the truth. [She gives a sigh of relief]. 
You’re glad of that?

Nora [up in arms at once].  Glad indeed!  Why should I be glad?  As we’ve waited eighteen years for him we can afford to wait a day longer, I should think.

Broadbent.  If you really feel like that about him, there may be a chance for another man yet.  Eh?

Nora [deeply offended].  I suppose people are different in England, Mr Broadbent; so perhaps you don’t mean any harm.  In Ireland nobody’d mind what a man’d say in fun, nor take advantage of what a woman might say in answer to it.  If a woman couldn’t talk to a man for two minutes at their first meeting without being treated the way you’re treating me, no decent woman would ever talk to a man at all.

Broadbent.  I don’t understand that.  I don’t admit that.  I am sincere; and my intentions are perfectly honorable.  I think you will accept the fact that I’m an Englishman as a guarantee that I am not a man to act hastily or romantically, though I confess that your voice had such an extraordinary effect on me just now when you asked me so quaintly whether I was making love to you—­

Nora [flushing] I never thought—­

BROADHHNT [quickly].  Of course you didn’t.  I’m not so stupid as that.  But I couldn’t bear your laughing at the feeling it gave me.  You—­[again struggling with a surge of emotion] you don’t know what I—­ [he chokes for a moment and then blurts out with unnatural steadiness] Will you be my wife?

Nora [promptly].  Deed I won’t.  The idea! [Looking at him more carefully] Arra, come home, Mr Broadbent; and get your senses back again.  I think you’re not accustomed to potcheen punch in the evening after your tea.

Broadbent [horrified].  Do you mean to say that I—­I—­I—­my God! that I appear drunk to you, Miss Reilly?

Nora [compassionately].  How many tumblers had you?

Broadbent [helplessly].  Two.

Nora.  The flavor of the turf prevented you noticing the strength of it.  You’d better come home to bed.

Broadbent [fearfully agitated].  But this is such a horrible doubt to put into my mind—­to—­to—­For Heaven’s sake, Miss Reilly, am I really drunk?

Nora [soothingly].  You’ll be able to judge better in the morning.  Come on now back with me, an think no more about it. [She takes his arm with motherly solicitude and urges him gently toward the path].

Broadbent [yielding in despair].  I must be drunk—­frightfully drunk; for your voice drove me out of my senses [he stumbles over a stone].  No:  on my word, on my most sacred word of honor, Miss Reilly, I tripped over that stone.  It was an accident; it was indeed.

Nora.  Yes, of course it was.  Just take my arm, Mr Broadbent, while we’re goin down the path to the road.  You’ll be all right then.