ROSAMUND [_appealing to Gerald to interfere_]. Gerald.
GERALD. Mr. Brett, I repeat that that revolver is mine. It would be a serious breach of good manners if you used it without my consent, a social solecism of which I believe you, as a friend of Miss Fife's, to be absolutely incapable. Still, as the instrument happens to be in your hand, you may use it--but not on yourself. Have the goodness, sir, to aim at me. I could not permit myself to stand in the way of another's happiness, as I should do if I continued to exist. At the same time I have conscientious objections to suicide. You will therefore do me a service by aiming straight. Above all things, don't hit Miss Fife. I merely mention it because I perceive that you are unaccustomed to the use of firearms. [_Folds his arms._]
JAMES [_deeply moved_]. The possessive pronoun convinces me that you do. [_Smiling blandly._] Sir, I will grant your most reasonable demand. [_Aims at Gerald._]
ROSAMUND [_half shrieking_]. I don't love you if you shoot Gerald.
JAMES. But, my dear, this is irrational. He has asked me to shoot him, and I have as good as promised to do so.
ROSAMUND [_entreating_]. James, in two hours we are to be married.... Think of the complications.
GERALD. Married! To-day! Then I withdraw my request.
JAMES. Yes; perhaps it will be as well. [_Lowers revolver._]
GERALD. I have never yet knowingly asked a friend, even an acquaintance, to shoot me on his wedding-day, and I will not begin now. Moreover, now I come to think of it, the revolver wasn't loaded. Mr. Brett, I inadvertently put you in a ridiculous position. I apologize.
JAMES. I accept the apology. [_The general tension slackens. Both the men begin to whistle gently, in the effort after unconcern._]
ROSAMUND. Jim, will you oblige me by putting that revolver down somewhere. I know it isn't loaded; but so many people have been killed by guns that weren't loaded that I should feel safer.... [_He puts it down on the table._] Thank you!
JAMES [_picking up letter_]. By the way, here's that letter that came just now. Aren't you going to open it? The writing seems to me to be something like Lottie Dickinson's.
ROSAMUND [_taking the letter_]. It isn't Lottie's; it's her sister's. [_Stares at envelope._] I know what it is. I _know_ what it is. Lottie is ill, or dead, or something, and can't come and be a witness at the wedding. I'm sure it's that. Now, if she's dead we can't _be_ married to-day; it wouldn't be decent. And it's frightfully unlucky to have a wedding postponed. Oh, but there isn't a black border on the envelope, so she can't be _dead_. And yet perhaps it was so sudden they hadn't time to buy mourning stationery! This is the result of your coming here this morning. I felt sure something would happen. Didn't I tell you so?