Hotchkiss [uneasily leaning against the table and holding on to it to control his nervous movements] Need you tell me? fiend that you are!

Mrs George.  You amused the husband, didnt you?

Hotchkiss.  He has more real sense of humor than she.  He’s better bred.  That was not my fault.

Mrs George.  My husband has a sense of humor too.

Hotchkiss.  The coal merchant?—­I mean the slate merchant.

Mrs George [appreciatively] He would just love to hear you talk.  He’s been dull lately for want of a change of company and a bit of fresh fun.

Hotchkiss [flinging a chair opposite her and sitting down with an overdone attempt at studied insolence] And pray what is your wretched husband’s vulgar conviviality to me?

Mrs George.  You love me?

Hotchkiss.  I loathe you.

Mrs George.  It’s the same thing.

Hotchkiss.  Then I’m lost.

Mrs George.  You may come and see me if you promise to amuse
George.

Hotchkiss.  I’ll insult him, sneer at him, wipe my boots on him.

Mrs George.  No you wont, dear boy.  Youll be a perfect gentleman.

Hotchkiss [beaten; appealing to her mercy] Zenobia—­

Mrs George.  Polly, please.

Hotchkiss.  Mrs Collins—­

Mrs George.  Sir?

Hotchkiss.  Something stronger than my reason and common sense is holding my hands and tearing me along.  I make no attempt to deny that it can drag me where you please and make me do what you like.  But at least let me know your soul as you seem to know mine.  Do you love this absurd coal merchant?

Mrs George.  Call him George.

Hotchkiss.  Do you love your Jorjy Porjy?

Mrs George.  Oh, I dont know that I love him.  He’s my husband, you know.  But if I got anxious about George’s health, and I thought it would nourish him, I would fry you with onions for his breakfast and think nothing of it.  George and I are good friends.  George belongs to me.  Other men may come and go; but George goes on for ever.

Hotchkiss.  Yes:  a husband soon becomes nothing but a habit.  Listen:  I suppose this detestable fascination you have for me is love.

Mrs George.  Any sort of feeling for a woman is called love nowadays.

Hotchkiss.  Do you love me?

Mrs George [promptly] My love is not quite so cheap an article as that, my lad.  I wouldnt cross the street to have another look at you—­not yet.  I’m not starving for love like the robins in winter, as the good ladies youre accustomed to are.  Youll have to be very clever, and very good, and very real, if you are to interest me.  If George takes a fancy to you, and you amuse him enough, I’ll just tolerate you coming in and out occasionally for—­well, say a month.  If you can make a friend of me in that time so much the better for you.  If you can touch my poor dying heart even for an instant, I’ll bless you, and never forget you.  You may try—­if George takes to you.