Grace (Her voice a little strained).  What are you going to try now?

Charteris (on the hearthrug, turning to face her).  Action, my dear!  Marriage!!  In that she must believe.  She won’t be convinced by anything short of it, because, you see, I have had some tremendous philanderings before and have gone back to her after them.

Grace.  And so that is why you want to marry me?

Charteris.  I cannot deny it, my love.  Yes:  it is your mission to rescue me from Julia.

Grace (rising).  Then, if you please, I decline to be made use of for any such purpose.  I will not steal you from another woman. (She begins to walk up and down the room with ominous disquiet.)

Charteris.  Steal me! (Comes towards her.) Grace:  I have a question to put to you as an advanced woman.  Mind! as an advanced woman.  Does Julia belong to me?  Am I her owner—­her master?

Grace.  Certainly not.  No woman is the property of a man.  A woman belongs to herself and to nobody else.

Charteris.  Quite right.  Ibsen for ever!  That’s exactly my opinion.  Now tell me, do I belong to Julia; or have I a right to belong to myself?

Grace (puzzled).  Of course you have; but—­

Charteris (interrupting her triumphantly).  Then how can you steal me from Julia if I don’t belong to her? (Catching her by the shoulders and holding her out at arm’s length in front of him.) Eh, little philosopher?  No, my dear:  if Ibsen sauce is good for the goose, it’s good for the gander as well.  Besides (coaxing her) it was nothing but a philander with Julia—­nothing else in the world, I assure you.

Grace (breaking away from him).  So much the worse!  I hate your philanderings:  they make me ashamed of you and of myself. (Goes to the sofa and sits in the right hand corner of it, leaning gloomily on her elbow with her face averted.)

Charteris.  Grace:  you utterly misunderstand the origin of my philanderings. (Sits down beside her.) Listen to me:  am I a particularly handsome man?

Grace (turning to him as if astonished at his conceit).  No!

Charteris (triumphantly).  You admit it.  Am I a well dressed man?

Grace.  Not particularly.

Charteris.  Of course not.  Have I a romantic mysterious charm about me?—­do I look as if a secret sorrow preyed on me?—­am I gallant to women?

Grace.  Not in the least.

Charteris.  Certainly not.  No one can accuse me of it.  Then whose fault is it that half the women I speak to fall in love with me?  Not mine:  I hate it:  it bores me to distraction.  At first it flattered me—­delighted me—­that was how Julia got me, because she was the first woman who had the pluck to make me a declaration.  But I soon had enough of it; and at no time have I taken the initiative and persecuted women with my advances as women have persecuted me.  Never.  Except, of course, in your case.