ANN. Oh well, I don't mean that, of course. But I have a great respect for Violet. She gets her own way always. OCTAVIUS. [sighing] So do you. ANN. Yes; but somehow she gets it without coaxing--without having to make people sentimental about her. OCTAVIUS. [with brotherly callousness] Nobody could get very sentimental about Violet, I think, pretty as she is. ANN. Oh yes they could, if she made them. OCTAVIUS. But surely no really nice woman would deliberately practise on men's instincts in that way. ANN. [throwing up her hands] Oh Tavy, Tavy, Ricky Ticky Tavy, heaven help the woman who marries you! OCTAVIUS. [his passion reviving at the name] Oh why, why, why do you say that? Don't torment me. I don't understand. ANN. Suppose she were to tell fibs, and lay snares for men? OCTAVIUS. Do you think _I_ could marry such a woman--I, who have known and loved you? ANN. Hm! Well, at all events, she wouldn't let you if she were wise. So that's settled. And now I can't talk any more. Say you forgive me, and that the subject is closed. OCTAVIUS. I have nothing to forgive; and the subject is closed. And if the wound is open, at least you shall never see it bleed. ANN. Poetic to the last, Tavy. Goodbye, dear. [She pats his check; has an impulse to kiss him and then another impulse of distaste which prevents her; finally runs away through the garden and into the villa]. Octavius again takes refuge at the table, bowing his head on his arms and sobbing softly. Mrs Whitefield, who has been pottering round the Granada shops, and has a net full of little parcels in her hand, comes in through the gate and sees him. MRS WHITEFIELD. [running to him and lifting his head] What's the matter, Tavy? Are you ill? OCTAVIUS. No, nothing, nothing. MRS WHITEFIELD. [still holding his head, anxiously] But you're crying. Is it about Violet's marriage? OCTAVIUS. No, no. Who told you about Violet? MRS WHITEFIELD. [restoring the head to its owner] I met Roebuck and that awful old Irishman. Are you sure you're not ill? What's the matter? OCTAVIUS. [affectionately] It's nothing--only a man's broken heart. Doesn't that sound ridiculous? MRS WHITEFIELD. But what is it all about? Has Ann been doing anything to you? OCTAVIUS. It's not Ann's fault. And don't think for a moment that I blame you. MRS WHITEFIELD. [startled] For what? OCTAVIUS. [pressing her hand consolingly] For nothing. I said I didn't blame you. MRS WHITEFIELD. But I haven't done anything. What's the matter? OCTAVIUS. [smiling sadly] Can't you guess? I daresay you are right to prefer Jack to me as a husband for Ann; but I love Ann; and it hurts rather. [He rises and moves away from her towards the middle of the lawn]. MRS WHITEFIELD. [following him hastily] Does Ann say that I want her to marry Jack? OCTAVIUS. Yes: she has told me. MRS WHITEFIELD. [thoughtfully] Then I'm very sorry for you, Tavy. It's only her way of saying SHE wants to marry Jack. Little she cares what _I_ say or what I want!