She.—Ssh! Don't talk of it in that way. It makes me afraid. Guy, how long have we two been insane?
He.—Seven months and fourteen days. I forget the odd hours exactly, but I'll think.
She.—I only wanted to see if you remembered. Who are those two on the Blessington Road?
He.—Eabrey and the Penner woman. What do they matter to us? Tell me everything that you've been doing and saying and thinking.
She.—Doing little, saying less, and thinking a great deal. I've hardly been out at all.
He.—That was wrong of you. You haven't been moping?
She.—Not very much. Can you wonder that I'm disinclined for amusement?
He.—Frankly, I do. Where was the difficulty?
She.—In this only. The more people I know and the more I'm known here, the wider spread will be the news of the crash when it comes. I don't like that.
He.—Nonsense. We shall be out of it.
She.—You think so?
He.—I'm sure of it, if there is any power in steam or horseflesh to carry us away. Ha! Ha!
She.—And the fun of the situation comes in—where, my Lancelot?
He.—Nowhere, Guinevere. I was only thinking of something.
She.—They say men have a keener sense of humour than women. Now I was thinking of the scandal.
He.—Don't think of anything so ugly. We shall be beyond it.
She.—It will be there all the same—in the mouths of Simla—telegraphed over Tndia, and talked of at the dinners—and when He goes out they will stare at Him to see how He takes it. And we shall be dead, Guy dear—dead and cast into the outer darkness where there is
