SCENE.--_Thymy grass-plot at back of the Mahasu dak-bungalow, overlooking little wooded valley. On the left, glimpse of the Dead Forest of Fagoo; on the right, Simla Hills. In background, line of the Snows._ CAPTAIN GADSBY, _now three weeks a husband, is smoking the pipe of peace on a rug in the sunshine. Banjo and tobacco-pouch on rug. Overhead the Fagoo eagles._ MRS. G. _comes out of bungalow._ MRS. G. My husband! CAPT. G. (_Lazily, with intense enjoyment._) Eh, wha-at? Say that again. MRS. G. I've written to Mamma and told her that we shall be back on the 17th. CAPT. G. Did you give her my love? MRS. G. No, I kept all that for myself. (_Sitting down by his side._) I thought you wouldn't mind. CAPT. G. (_With mock sternness._) I object awf'ly. How did you know that it was yours to keep? MRS. G. I guessed, Phil. CAPT. G. (_Rapturously._) _Lit-tle_ Featherweight! MRS. G. I _won't_ be called those sporting pet names, bad boy. CAPT. G. You'll be called anything I choose. Has it ever occurred to you, Madam, that you are my Wife? MRS. G. It has. I haven't ceased wondering at it yet. CAPT. G. Nor I. It seems so strange; and yet, somehow, it doesn't. (_Confidently._) You see, it could have been no one else. MRS. G. (_Softly._) No. No one else--for me or for you. It must have been _all_ arranged from the beginning. Phil, tell me again what made you care for me. CAPT. G. How could I help it? You were _you_, you know. MRS. G. Did you ever want to help it? Speak the truth! CAPT. G. (_A twinkle in his eye._) I did, darling, just at the first. But only at the very first. (_Chuckles._) I called you--stoop low and I'll whisper--'a little beast.' Ho! Ho! Ho! MRS. G. (_Taking him by the moustache and making him sit up._) 'A--little--beast!' Stop laughing over your crime! And yet you had the--the--awful cheek to propose to me! CAPT. G. I'd changed my mind then. And you weren't a little beast any more. MRS. G. Thank you, Sir! And when was I ever? CAPT. G. _Never!_ But that first day, when you gave me tea in that peach-coloured muslin gown thing, you looked--you did indeed, dear--such an absurd little mite. And I didn't know what to say to you. MRS. G. (_Twisting moustache._) So you said 'little beast.' Upon my word, Sir! _I_ called _you_ a 'Crrrreature,' but I wish now I had called you something worse. CAPT. G. (_Very meekly._) I apologise, but you're hurting me awf'ly. (_Interlude._) You're welcome to torture me again on those terms. MRS. G. Oh, _why_ did you let me do it? CAPT. G. (_Looking across valley._) No reason in particular, but--if it amused you or did you any good--you might--wipe those dear little boots of yours on me. MRS. G. (_Stretching out her hands._) Don't! Oh, don't! Philip, my King, _please_ don't talk like that. It's how _I_ feel. You're so much too good for me. So much too good! CAPT. G. Me! I'm not fit to put my arm round you. (_Puts it round._) MRS. G. Yes, you are. But I--what have I ever done?