I suppose it is. But you mustn’t say “hard luck.” My life, alas! is so full of deceits that when one of them is punished, I always try to be grateful. But tell me now, about yourself—everything that has happened these last months. Your letters have been too full of facts to tell me anything. And I do so long to hear all your news.... BILL. Patricia.... LADY PATRICIA. Yes, dear? BILL. What an awfully good woman you are! LADY PATRICIA. Am I?... I wonder! BILL. And your eyes are simply ripping. LADY PATRICIA. Are they? BILL. And your hands, by Jove! LADY PATRICIA. What of my hands, dear? BILL. They’re simply ripping. LADY PATRICIA. Dear heart! (_Stroking his head._) Dear soft hair. But I’m waiting. BILL. Oh yes, I forgot. But there really ain’t much to tell that I haven’t told you in my letters. I arrived in New York on a Saturday after an awfully jolly passage. Those big Cunarders are corking boats. Had a bit of a dust-up at the Customs, but I squared the chap with a ten-dollar bill. A chap on board advised me to put up at the Waldorf-Astoria. He told me it was one of their swaggerest hotels, but I must say—— LADY PATRICIA. (_Laughing._) Yes, yes, dear, you’ve told me all that before! And about the nigger waiter whose thumb was always in the soup—and the Californian peach as big as a baby’s head—and the factory that was burned down in Chicago—and the card-sharper who tried to swindle you at poker, “but he got hold of the wrong chap, by Jove!”—and so many other thrilling details. (_Almost with passion, taking his face in her hands._) You darling! Oh, you darling! BILL. I thought I’d told you everything. LADY PATRICIA. Of course you did—everything. (_With far-off eyes._) I wonder why I am so foolish as to expect the essentials from you—those labourings of the soul at midnight, yearnings, ecstasies, and long, long thoughts under the stars. If you had been capable of these I should never have loved you. It’s just your simplicity and eternal boyishness that took my heart. Poor Michael’s spiritual nature, his dreams, his subtlety, his devotion, never touched me deeper than the intellect. I mistook sympathy for love—I seemed to have found a kindred spirit—I married him. Yes! we are all born to suffer and endure.... Which reminds me, my poor dear boy, you must be dying for tea. (_Pouring out the tea._) I hope you had some lunch? BILL. Rather! I had a luncheon-basket in the train, and put away the best part of a chicken, among other things. LADY PATRICIA. How young and hungry you are! (_Hands him a cup of tea with a lemon slice in the saucer._) BILL. I say!... LADY PATRICIA. Yes, dear? BILL. Have you any milk or cream? LADY PATRICIA. (_Sorrowfully._) Oh, Bill!... BILL. I can’t help it. This Russian mess ain’t a Christian drink. I can’t think how you can swallow it. LADY PATRICIA.