Peter (_confidently_). That's because you're thinking of my past. Peter Garside, the Board School boy, the working engineer with a home in a back street--a great gulf yawned between that Garside of the past and the daughter of Sir Jasper Mottram, four times Mayor of Midlandton. The gulf is narrower to-day. In a year or two it won't exist. I'm not impertinent, Miss Mottram. I'm being bold enough to look into the future... the future you've inspired. Glad. I ought to scold you, Mr. Garside. Peter. Why? Glad, (_lightly_). You appropriated me as your inspiration without leave. Peter. Didn't my eyes tell you across the crowd? Glad. Your eyes? Peter (_emphatically_). Yes, mine spoke and yours answered mine, not once but half a dozen times. Glad, (_freezing_). I'm afraid you're subject to delusions, Mr. Garside. Peter. You're afraid to tell the truth. Glad, (_fencing_). Truth's so miscellaneous, don't you think? It's a diamond with many facets. Peter. I'm not here to bandy epigrams. Truth is truth. You're afraid to own by mouth the truth you told me with your eyes. Glad. Don't you think you overrate the communicative capacity of eyes? Peter. I think you're playing with me now. I know you didn't play then. We had reality there in the street. I'll make you tell me yet you meant the things your eyes spoke to me. Glad. Make! This is strange language for a drawing-room, sir. Peter. I'm not talking to the drawing-room miss. She's a stranger to me. I'm talking to the real woman, the woman I knew outside there, stripped of the veil of lies you try to hide behind. Glad. But you don't know me. I never met you till to-night. Peter. I didn't know your name until to-night. What do names matter? Your eyes had blazed into my soul. [_The door opens violently, and Jones, wearing his hat, bursts in followed by Freddie, who is mildly protestant. Peter and Gladys rise._ Jones (_crossing to centre_). What's the meaning of this, Garside? Fred (_following and tapping him on the bach_). I say, don't you even take your hat off in a lady's presence? Jones (_growlingly_). Ugh! (_But he takes his hat off._) Peter. How dare you force your way in here? Jones. I may well come. You're wanted outside. Meetings shouting themselves hoarse for you. Chances passing while you loll here in plutocratic luxury, idling in the gilded chambers of our enemies. Faugh! (_Kicking chair violently centre. Freddie picks up the cushion from it and offers it._) Fred. That's rather an expensive chair. Take it out of this if you must kick something. Peter. I am paying an official call authorised by my Committee on Sir Jasper Mottram. Jones. I don't sec Sir Jasper. Fred. I told this Johnnie you were busy. Tried to soothe the beggar, but he broke away. Jones (_to Peter_). Well, you'd better come at once. [_Peter wavers visibly when Gladys interposes._ Glad. Mr. Garside is our guest. Jones (_more roughly still_). Come away.