It’s good, under such circumstances, if you can feel a bit of a martyr, you mean? JOHN. That’s it. So, in the future, you must never tire of reminding _yourself_ of the utter harmlessness of those hours we used to spend together in Lennox Gardens. THEOPHILA. They were harmless enough, God knows. JOHN. [_Earnestly, eagerly._] God knows. THEOPHILA. And they were awfully jolly, too. JOHN. [_Blankly, his voice dropping._] Jolly——? THEOPHILA. You know—cosy, comforting. JOHN. Yes, yes—comforting. It was the one thing that kept me together during those shocking Pont Street days of mine. THEOPHILA. Our friendship? JOHN. Our friendship. When I was in the deepest misery, the thought would come to me: “Well, I shall see my little friend to-day or to-morrow.” And then I’d go through our meeting as I supposed it would be—as it always was—— THEOPHILA. “’Ullo, Jack! good morning—or good evening. Oh, my dear boy, you’re in trouble again, I’m afraid!” JOHN. “Dreadfully. I shall go mad, I believe—or drink.” THEOPHILA. “Mad—drink; not you. Sit down and tell me all about it.” JOHN. And so on. THEOPHILA. And so on. I had my miseries too. JOHN. Yes, you had your miseries too. THEOPHILA. And then you invariably came out with that one piece of oracular advice of yours. JOHN. Ah, yes. “Don’t fret; it’ll be all the same a hundred years hence.” THEOPHILA. Which you couldn’t act upon, yourself. How vexed it used to make me—and the ponderous way you said it! JOHN. Well, it was a good, helpful friendship to me. THEOPHILA. And to me. JOHN. [_Standing a little behind her; speaking calmly, but watching her eagerly._] Because, all the while, there was never one single thought of anything but friendship on either side. THEOPHILA. Why, of course not, Jack. JOHN. You’d have detected it in me, if there had been? THEOPHILA. Trust a woman for that. JOHN. And if you had for a moment fancied that I was losing sight of mere friendship——? THEOPHILA. You! JOHN. What would you have done? THEOPHILA.