Grace (shrinking from him).  Just!

Charteris (sitting upright and facing her steadily).  Just exactly.  She has put her hands in mine, and laid her cheek against mine, and listened to me saying all sorts of silly things. (Grace, chilled to the soul, rises from the sofa and sits down on the piano stool, with her back to the keyboard.) Ah, you don’t want to hear any more of the story.  So much the better.

Grace (deeply hurt, but controlling herself).  When did you break it off?

Charteris (guiltily).  Break it off?

Grace (firmly).  Yes, break it off.

Charteris.  Well, let me see.  When did I fall in love with you?

Grace.  Did you break it off then?

Charteris (mischievously, making it plainer and plainer that it has not been broken off).  It was clear then, of course, that it must be broken off.

Grace.  And did you break it off?

Charteris.  Oh, yes:  I broke it off,

Grace.  But did she break it off?

Charteris (rising).  As a favour to me, dearest, change the subject.  Come away from the piano:  I want you to sit here with me. (Takes a step towards her.)

Grace.  No.  I also have grown hard to the touch—­much harder than hickory for the present.  Did she break it off?

Charteris.  My dear, be reasonable.  It was fully explained to her that it was to be broken off.

Grace.  Did she accept the explanation?

Charteris.  She did what a woman like Julia always does.  When I explained personally, she said it was not not my better self that was speaking, and that she knew I still really loved her.  When I wrote it to her with brutal explicitness, she read the letter carefully and then sent it back to me with a note to say that she had not had the courage to open it, and that I ought to be ashamed of having written it. (Comes beside Grace, and puts his left hand caressingly round her neck.) You see, dearie, she won’t look the situation in the face.

Grace. (shaking off his hand and turning a little away on the stool).  I am afraid, from the light way in which you speak of it, you did not sound the right chord.

Charteris.  My dear, when you are doing what a woman calls breaking her heart, you may sound the very prettiest chords you can find on the piano; but to her ears it is just like this—­(Sits down on the bass end of the keyboard.  Grace puts her fingers in her ears.  He rises and moves away from the piano, saying) No, my dear:  I’ve been kind; I’ve been frank; I’ve been everything that a goodnatured man could be:  she only takes it as the making up of a lover’s quarrel. (Grace winces.) Frankness and kindness:  one is as the other—­especially frankness.  I’ve tried both. (He crosses to the fireplace, and stands facing the fire, looking at the ornaments on the mantelpiece and warming his hands.)