Broadbent [touched].  Now that’s very nice of you, Nora, that’s really most delicately womanly [he kisses her hand chivalrously].

Nora [looking earnestly and a little doubtfully at him].  Surely if you let one woman cry on you like that you’d never let another touch you.

Broadbent [conscientiously].  One should not.  One ought not, my dear girl.  But the honest truth is, if a chap is at all a pleasant sort of chap, his chest becomes a fortification that has to stand many assaults:  at least it is so in England.

Nora [curtly, much disgusted].  Then you’d better marry an Englishwoman.

Broadbent [making a wry face].  No, no:  the Englishwoman is too prosaic for my taste, too material, too much of the animated beefsteak about her.  The ideal is what I like.  Now Larry’s taste is just the opposite:  he likes em solid and bouncing and rather keen about him.  It’s a very convenient difference; for we’ve never been in love with the same woman.

Nora.  An d’ye mean to tell me to me face that you’ve ever been in love before?

Broadbent.  Lord! yes.

Nora.  I’m not your first love?

Broadbent.  First love is only a little foolishness and a lot of curiosity:  no really self-respecting woman would take advantage of it.  No, my dear Nora:  I’ve done with all that long ago.  Love affairs always end in rows.  We’re not going to have any rows:  we’re going to have a solid four-square home:  man and wife:  comfort and common sense—­and plenty of affection, eh [he puts his arm round her with confident proprietorship]?

Nora [coldly, trying to get away].  I don’t want any other woman’s leavings.

Broadbent [holding her].  Nobody asked you to, ma’am.  I never asked any woman to marry me before.

Nora [severely].  Then why didn’t you if you’re an honorable man?

Broadbent.  Well, to tell you the truth, they were mostly married already.  But never mind! there was nothing wrong.  Come!  Don’t take a mean advantage of me.  After all, you must have had a fancy or two yourself, eh?

Nora [conscience-stricken].  Yes.  I suppose I’ve no right to be particular.

Broadbent [humbly].  I know I’m not good enough for you, Nora.  But no man is, you know, when the woman is a really nice woman.

Nora.  Oh, I’m no better than yourself.  I may as well tell you about it.

Broadbent.  No, no:  let’s have no telling:  much better not.  I shan’t tell you anything:  don’t you tell me anything.  Perfect confidence in one another and no tellings:  that’s the way to avoid rows.

Nora.  Don’t think it was anything I need be ashamed of.

Broadbent.  I don’t.

Nora.  It was only that I’d never known anybody else that I could care for; and I was foolish enough once to think that Larry—­