I don’t suppose I like it any better than you, dear. But the mixture of cream and tea, as I have often told you, produces an odious colour—and I refuse to encourage it. You should try to do likewise.... However, you will find cream in the summer-house. BILL. Right-ho! (_Goes into summer-house._) Hullo! Good man! Here’s whisky-and-soda. (_Talking in the summer-house, half to himself, half to her._) That’s the stuff! Nothing like a syphonated spot when one’s got a real thirst! No tea for me, thanks. LADY PATRICIA. (_To herself, smiling._) Dear babbler.... BILL. (_Coming down, a glassful in his hand._) Here’s to you, Patricia! LADY PATRICIA. (_In a deep voice, looking into eternity._) We are all born to suffer, to endure, to renounce.... BILL. Oh, well! I’ll drink that Russian stuff if you like. LADY PATRICIA. I was not thinking of tea. I was thinking of life. BILL. (_Unfeignedly relieved._) Yes, it’s an awfully hard world. (_Takes a long draught._) By Jove, that’s clinking good! LADY PATRICIA. It becomes more and more difficult to play my part, and return Michael’s love, which seems to grow stronger and deeper day by day. His eyes follow my every movement, his mind anticipates my every wish, he surrounds me with an atmosphere of passionate worship. Few women have ever received such love. It is the love that poets dream of—the love that must follow those marriages that are made in heaven. BILL. Good Lord, it’s awfully rough on you! LADY PATRICIA. I think and I think and I think, but I can see no solution to the mystery. Surely love is the best gift of God, and that such love as Michael’s—so noble, so pure, so unselfish—should be utterly wasted, is inconceivable. It must be that I am unworthy. (_She pauses expectantly._) BILL. And it puts me in such a rotten position. If Michael treated you badly, I shouldn’t care a rap how much I made love to you. LADY PATRICIA. (_With slight asperity._) Can it be that I am unworthy? BILL. As it is I often feel such a beastly cad.... LADY PATRICIA. Then you think me unworthy? BILL. I? LADY PATRICIA. You never denied it. BILL. But I didn’t know you wanted me to! You’re worthy of anything! You know that! LADY PATRICIA. Dear, dear boy! But am I? I wonder! Heaven only knows how desperately I tried to love him, and when I found it impossible, how I never faltered in pretending a love equal to his. And I knew that it would kill him should he learn the truth. But if the part I played was difficult before you came, after you came, and I knew what love was, it was almost beyond my power. And yet I drew strength somehow, not only to resist temptation and keep our love pure, but never by word, deed, or expression to let Michael suspect for one moment that his devotion was not returned. Yes! I think a woman who has done all this cannot be altogether unworthy. BILL. You’re—you’re a saint—you’re an angel! LADY PATRICIA. Am I? I wonder! BILL. You really are!