Lyra:  My head is out of a sack.  I managed my escape from him this morning by renouncing bath and breakfast; and what a relief, to be in the railway carriage alone! that is, when the engine snorted.  And if I set eyes on him within a week, he will hear some truths.  His idea of marriage is, the taking of the woman into custody.  My hat is on, and on goes Pluriel’s.  My foot on the stairs; I hear his boot behind me.  In my boudoir I am alone one minute, and then the door opens to the inevitable.  I pay a visit, he is passing the house as I leave it.  He will not even affect surprise.  I belong to him, I am cat’s mouse.  And he will look doating on me in public.  And when I speak to anybody, he is that fearful picture of all smirks.  Fling off a kid glove after a round of calls; feel your hand—­there you have me now that I am out of him for my half a day, if for as long.

Astraea:  This is one of the world’s happy marriages!

Lyra:  This is one of the world’s choice dishes!  And I have it planted under my nostrils eternally.  Spare me the mention of Pluriel until he appears; that’s too certain this very day.  Oh! good husband! good kind of man! whatever you please; only some peace, I do pray, for the husband-haunted wife.  I like him, I like him, of course, but I want to breathe.  Why, an English boy perpetually bowled by a Christmas pudding would come to loathe the mess.

Astraea:  His is surely the excess of a merit.

Lyra:  Excess is a poison.  Excess of a merit is a capital offence in morality.  It disgusts, us with virtue.  And you are the cunningest of fencers, tongue, or foils.  You lead me to talk of myself, and I hate the subject.  By the way, you have practised with Mr. Arden.

Astraea:  A tiresome instructor, who lets you pass his guard to compliment you on a hit.

Lyra:  He rather wins me.

Astraea:  He does at first.

Lyra:  Begins Plurielizing, without the law to back him, does he?

Astraea:  The fencing lessons are at an end.

Lyra:  The duetts with Mr. Swithin’s violoncello continue?

Astraea:  He broke through the melody.

Lyra:  There were readings in poetry with Mr. Osier, I recollect.

Astraea:  His own compositions became obtrusive.

Lyra:  No fencing, no music, no poetry! no West Coast of Africa either, I suppose.

Astraea:  Very well!  I am on my defence.  You at least shall not misunderstand me, Lyra.  One intense regret I have; that I did not live in the time of the Amazons.  They were free from this question of marriage; this babble of love.  Why am I so persecuted?  He will not take a refusal.  There are sacred reasons.  I am supported by every woman having the sense of her dignity.  I am perverted, burlesqued by the fury of wrath I feel at their incessant pursuit.  And I despise Mr. Osier and Mr. Swithin because they have an air of pious agreement with the Dame, and are conspirators behind their mask.