Gunning.

[With conviction.] You won't go.

Miss Woodward.

But I will.

Gunning.

My dear Miss Woodward, believe me, you will not.

Miss Woodward.

You don't propose using force, I suppose?

Gunning.

No; I think you would like me to, but unfortunately this is not our house, and one must observe the convenances.

Miss Woodward.

[Going to door, L.] Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.

Gunning.

Moral force will detain you.

Miss Woodward.

What moral force, pray?

[Turning.

Gunning.

Curiosity. You know you are dying to know what I have to say.

Miss Woodward.

Indeed I am not.

Gunning.

Oh yes, you are. And further, a certain womanly graciousness will prevent your going. You are saying to yourself, "Mr. Gunning has evinced a genuine interest in me. It would be cattish of me to refuse him a few minutes' talk."

Miss Woodward.

[Slowly comes to sofa and puts her books down.] I certainly don't wish to be cattish.

Gunning.

Of course not.

Miss Woodward.

[Sits on sofa.] And anyway I want to eat my piece of cake. Will you pa.s.s it, please? [He pa.s.ses the plate.] Thank you. I hope you won't mind my eating.

Gunning.

Not at all. I like it.

Miss Woodward.

Not that I fear it would make any difference if you did.

Gunning.

No, certainly not. Go on being natural, please. [Pause. He watches her nibbling the cake.] Shall I ring for a fresh piece?

Miss Woodward.

No, thank you. I'm used to this piece now. [She glances up at him.] You needn't be disconcerted, Mr. Gunning.

Gunning.

I'm not a bit.

Miss Woodward.

You look it a little.

Gunning.

Do I?

Miss Woodward.

And you know you didn't detain me here to watch me eating cake.

Gunning.

No, although you do it very nicely. I want to ask you what you think of me.

[Leaning on back of chair, R.C.

Miss Woodward.

I haven't thought of you.

Gunning.

Well, I'd like you to begin.

Miss Woodward.

I'm afraid I haven't time now.

Gunning.

It might be to your interest, though I don't say positively that it would be.

Miss Woodward.

Explain.

[Turns to him.

Gunning.

I think I ought first to tell you something about myself.

Miss Woodward.

[In mock alarm.] Not the story of your life, surely. My cab will be here soon.

Gunning.

You told me yours last night?

Miss Woodward.

You asked me to. I haven't asked you.

Gunning.

You needn't reproach me for taking an interest in you.

Miss Woodward.

I don't; but you make such a fuss about it, as if it were a sort of miracle.

Gunning.

[Crossly takes plate from her lap and cake from her hand; puts them on table, R.] Oh well, I suppose I oughtn't to detain you, Miss Woodward. You are evidently anxious to get back to your twelve sisters and the hat and frock you told me about.

Miss Woodward.

[Rises.] You needn't throw the family poverty in my face, although it serves me right for giving my confidence to a comparative stranger.

Gunning.

Miss Woodward, I humbly beg your pardon.

Miss Woodward.

Although the home may be grubby, I daresay we are as happy as you. We believe in things, anyway-you don't.

Gunning.

Don't judge me by a hasty remark. Besides, I had an alternative to suggest.

Miss Woodward.

You? You don't want a secretary, do you?

Gunning.

I-I wanted to tell you in a different way, but you won't let me. I want you as my wife.

Miss Woodward.

Your wife, Mr. Gunning?

Gunning.

It may appear sudden and cold-blooded-but your cab is coming.

Miss Woodward.

You've taken my breath away. How exciting it is when it does come. I really don't know what to say. I know there is a usual thing. It isn't "To what am I indebted for this honour," is it?

Gunning.

I don't know. I've never asked a girl before.

Miss Woodward.

We don't know each other in the least.

Gunning.

That's where we would start with a big advantage. We'd have all the pleasure of finding each other out. Anyway, you are not displeased.

Miss Woodward.

Oh no; either way I score. If I say yes, I suppose I'll make a good match.

Gunning.