Paynter.  We are much obliged, ma’am.

Clare.  I ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to.

Paynter.  Naturally, ma’am!

Clare.  Good-night.

Paynter.  I couldn’t get you a little anything, ma’am?

Clare.  No, thank you.

Paynter.  No, ma’am.  Good-night, ma’am.

     [He withdraws.]

George.  You needn’t have gone out of your way to tell a lie that wouldn’t deceive a guinea-pig. [Going up to her] Pleased with yourself to-night? [Clare shakes her head] Before that fellow Malise; as if our own people weren’t enough!

Clare.  Is it worth while to rag me?  I know I’ve behaved badly, but
I couldn’t help it, really!

George.  Couldn’t help behaving like a shop-girl?  My God!  You were brought up as well as I was.

Clare.  Alas!

George.  To let everybody see that we don’t get on—­there’s only one word for it—­Disgusting!

Clare.  I know.

George.  Then why do you do it?  I’ve always kept my end up.  Why in heaven’s name do you behave in this crazy way?

Clare.  I’m sorry.

George. [With intense feeling] You like making a fool of me!

Clare.  No—­Really!  Only—­I must break out sometimes.

George.  There are things one does not do.

Clare.  I came in because I was sorry.

George.  And at once began to do it again!  It seems to me you delight in rows.

Clare.  You’d miss your—­reconciliations.

George.  For God’s sake, Clare, drop cynicism!

Clare.  And truth?

George.  You are my wife, I suppose.

Clare.  And they twain shall be one—­spirit.

George.  Don’t talk wild nonsense!

     [There is silence.]

Clare. [Softly] I don’t give satisfaction.  Please give me notice!

George.  Pish!

Clare.  Five years, and four of them like this!  I’m sure we’ve served our time.  Don’t you really think we might get on better together—­if I went away?

George.  I’ve told you I won’t stand a separation for no real reason, and have your name bandied about all over London.  I have some primitive sense of honour.

Clare.  You mean your name, don’t you?

George.  Look here.  Did that fellow Malise put all this into your head?

Clare.  No; my own evil nature.

George.  I wish the deuce we’d never met him.  Comes of picking up people you know nothing of.  I distrust him—­and his looks—­and his infernal satiric way.  He can’t even ’dress decently.  He’s not—­good form.

Clare. [With a touch of rapture] Ah-h!