Gregory.  No, I recall you to your duty.  But oh, I will give you my life with both hands if you can tell me that you feel for me one millionth part of what I feel for you now.

Mrs. Juno.  Oh, yes, yes.  Be satisfied with that.  Ask for no more.  Let me go.

Gregory.  I can’t.  I have no will.  Something stronger than either of us is in command here.  Nothing on earth or in heaven can part us now.  You know that, don’t you?

Mrs. Juno.  Oh, don’t make me say it.  Of course I know.  Nothing—­ not life nor death nor shame nor anything can part us.

A matter-of-fact male voice in the corridor.  All right.  This must be it.

The two recover with a violent start; release one another; and spring back to opposite sides of the lounge.

Gregory.  That did it.

Mrs. Juno [in a thrilling whisper] Sh—­sh—­sh!  That was my husband’s voice.

Gregory.  Impossible:  it’s only our guilty fancy.

A woman’s voice.  This is the way to the lounge.  I know it.

Gregory.  Great Heaven! we’re both mad.  That’s my wife’s voice.

Mrs. Juno.  Ridiculous!  Oh! we’re dreaming it all.  We [the door opens; and Sibthorpe Juno appears in the roseate glow of the corridor (which happens to be papered in pink) with Mrs. Lunn, like Tannhauser in the hill of Venus.  He is a fussily energetic little man, who gives himself an air of gallantry by greasing the points of his moustaches and dressing very carefully.  She is a tall, imposing, handsome, languid woman, with flashing dark eyes and long lashes.  They make for the chesterfield, not noticing the two palpitating figures blotted against the walls in the gloom on either side.  The figures flit away noiselessly through the window and disappear].

Juno [officiously] Ah:  here we are. [He leads the way to the sofa].  Sit down:  I’m sure you’re tired. [She sits].  That’s right. [He sits beside her on her left].  Hullo! [he rises] this sofa’s quite warm.

Mrs. Lunn [bored] Is it?  I don’t notice it.  I expect the sun’s been on it.

Juno.  I felt it quite distinctly:  I’m more thinly clad than you. [He sits down again, and proceeds, with a sigh of satisfaction].  What a relief to get off the ship and have a private room!  That’s the worst of a ship.  You’re under observation all the time.

Mrs. Lunn.  But why not?

Juno.  Well, of course there’s no reason:  at least I suppose not.  But, you know, part of the romance of a journey is that a man keeps imagining that something might happen; and he can’t do that if there are a lot of people about and it simply can’t happen.

Mrs. Lunn.  Mr. Juno:  romance is all very well on board ship; but when your foot touches the soil of England there’s an end of it.