Gregory.  Not at all.  You see, it’s a great many years since I’ve been able to allow myself to fall in love.  I know lots of charming women; but the worst of it is, they’re all married.  Women don’t become charming, to my taste, until they’re fully developed; and by that time, if they’re really nice, they’re snapped up and married.  And then, because I am a good man, I have to place a limit to my regard for them.  I may be fortunate enough to gain friendship and even very warm affection from them; but my loyalty to their husbands and their hearths and their happiness obliges me to draw a line and not overstep it.  Of course I value such affectionate regard very highly indeed.  I am surrounded with women who are most dear to me.  But every one of them has a post sticking up, if I may put it that way, with the inscription Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.  How we all loathe that notice!  In every lovely garden, in every dell full of primroses, on every fair hillside, we meet that confounded board; and there is always a gamekeeper round the corner.  But what is that to the horror of meeting it on every beautiful woman, and knowing that there is a husband round the corner?  I have had this accursed board standing between me and every dear and desirable woman until I thought I had lost the power of letting myself fall really and wholeheartedly in love.

Mrs. Juno.  Wasn’t there a widow?

Gregory.  No.  Widows are extraordinarily scarce in modern society.  Husbands live longer than they used to; and even when they do die, their widows have a string of names down for their next.

Mrs. Juno.  Well, what about the young girls?

Gregory.  Oh, who cares for young girls?  They’re sympathetic. 
They’re beginners.  They don’t attract me.  I’m afraid of them.

Mrs. Juno.  That’s the correct thing to say to a woman of my age.  But it doesn’t explain why you seem to have put your scruples in your pocket when you met me.

Gregory.  Surely that’s quite clear.  I—­

Mrs. Juno.  No:  please don’t explain.  I don’t want to know.  I take your word for it.  Besides, it doesn’t matter now.  Our voyage is over; and to-morrow I start for the north to my poor father’s place.

Gregory [surprised].  Your poor father!  I thought he was alive.

Mrs. Juno.  So he is.  What made you think he wasn’t?

Gregory.  You said your poor father.

Mrs. Juno.  Oh, that’s a trick of mine.  Rather a silly trick, I Suppose; but there’s something pathetic to me about men:  I find myself calling them poor So-and-So when there’s nothing whatever the matter with them.

Gregory [who has listened in growing alarm].  But—­I—­is?—­ wa—?  Oh, Lord!

Mrs. Juno.  What’s the matter?