Peter. I couldn't go back now. Glad. And I've given up hope of ever getting to London. Peter. Do you want to very much? (_Draws towards right arm-chair, and sits leaning forward towards her._) Glad, (_with deep conviction_). I feel sometimes I'd do anything on earth to live here. (_Smiling._) You see, I'd like to be a society butterfly. You can't understand that, I suppose. Peter. Why not? Glad. I thought you despised luxury. Peter. Oh dear no. I like good clothes and soft living. Glad. But you denounce them. Peter. What I denounce is luxury for the few and penury for the many. We want to level up, not level down. Glad. I've heard something like that before. Peter. Probably. It's not my business to be original. If I tried to be lofty I'd be talking above the heads of my audiences. Glad, (_puzzled_). I wonder how much is sincere! Peter. Sincere? I'm a professional advocate. I take a tiny grain of truth, dress it up in a pompous parade of rhetoric and deliver it in the manner of an oracle and the accent of a cheapjack. It's a question of making my points tell. Sincerity doesn't matter. Glad, (_rising_). If I turned myself into a human gramophone, I shouldn't boast about it, Mr. Garside. It's not _very_ creditable to live by fooling the public. Peter (_rising_). Creditable? If I fooled them from Fleet Street they'd make me a peer. The public likes to be fooled. They know I'm fooling them. They pay me to go on fooling them. Some men live by selling adulterated beer. I live by selling adulterated truth. Glad. And neither makes an honest livelihood. Peter. No, neither your father the brewer, nor I the demagogue. But I'm being frank with you, Miss Mottram. Between us two there's not to be pretence. Glad. Why am _I_ honoured with your confidences? Peter. Because you have a right to know. I do these things to make money. I want money because--because of the hope that was born in me when your eyes first met mine across the crowd in Midlandton. Glad, (_after a slight pause_). Mr. Garside, I--I think I ought to go. My brother only left me because he thought your mother would be here. Peter (_going towards door right_). Shall I bring her? Glad. She's gone to bed. Peter. I fancy I can find her if you tell me to. Glad. I'm sure I ought. Peter. I'm sure you always do what you ought, so---- (_Putting his hand to the door-handle._) Glad. (_quickly_). Yes, I do--in Midlandton. Peter (_turning quickly from door_). And this is London. You're on holiday. Glad, (_checking him_). But not from my conscience, Mr. Garside. Peter. Oh, conscience is so much a matter of climate. A Midlandton conscience finds London air very relaxing. Glad, (_sitting slowly right as before_). I don't think you ought to disturb your mother, Mr. Garside. Peter (_resuming his own chair, with conscious hypocrisy_). No. Old people need such a lot of sleep. So that's settled. Let me see. I was talking about myself, wasn't I?