ROSAMUND [_drying her tears, and putting on a saintly expression_]. Well, anyhow, James, we will consider our engagement at an end.
JAMES. This extraordinary tiff has lasted long enough, Rosie. Come and be kissed.
ROSAMUND [_with increased saintliness_]. You mistake me, James. I am not quarreling. I am not angry.
ROSAMUND. I adore you passionately. But we can never marry. Do you not perceive the warnings against such a course? First of all you come here--drawn by some mysterious, sinister impulse--in breach of all etiquette. That was a Sign.
ROSAMUND. Evil. Then you find that postcard, to remind me of a forgotten episode.
JAMES. Damn the postcard! I wish I'd never picked it up.
ROSAMUND. Hush! Then comes this letter about Lottie.
JAMES. Damn him, too! By the way, where is he?
GERALD [_coming out from behind the screen_]. Sir, if you want to influence my future state by means of a blasphemous expletive, let me beg you to do it when ladies are not present. There are certain prayers which should only be uttered in the smoking-room. [_The two men stab each other with their eyes._]
JAMES. I respectfully maintain, Mr. O'Mara, that you had no business to call on my future wife within three hours of her wedding, and throw her into such a condition of alarm and unrest that she doesn't know whether she is going to get married or not.
GERALD. Sir! How in the name of Heaven was I to guess--
ROSAMUND [_rising, with an imperative gesture_]. Stop! Sit down, both. James [_who hesitates_], this is the last request I shall ever make of you. [_He sits_]. Let me speak. Long ago, from a mistaken motive of kindness, I gave this poor boy [_pointing to Gerald_] to understand that I loved him; that any rate I should love him in time. Supported by that assurance, he existed for four years through the climatic terrors of a distant isle. I, pampered with all the superfluities of civilization, forgot this noble youth in his exile. I fell selfishly in love. I promised to marry ... while he, with nothing to assuage the rigors--
JAMES. Pardon me, there was Evelyn's "Moonlight Sonata," not to mention Madge's eyes.
ROSAMUND. You jest, James, but the jest is untimely. Has he not himself said that these doubtless excellent young women were in fact nothing to him, that it was _my_ image which he kept steadfastly in his heart?