CAMELE. Yes, and no, again. I don't believe that I hate him half as much now as I did last evening. MAUD. Camele, he has spoiled you completely. To hear you say that, after what has happened between you, horrifies me. CAMELE. You were never married. MAUD. Meat! Meat! YVONNE. Come, have some tea. Come, Camele. (Maude and Camele, arm in arm, move towards the tea table, while George, followed by Alice, comes and sits on the couch. The others sit around the table.) GEORGE. Why do you insist on following me? Stay with the girls over there--hear the joys of married life. ALICE. Joys--I am more interested in knowing why you did not come to see me, as you promised last night? GEORGE. I didn't promise--I said "probably." ALICE. That's your word--but you usually come. Why not last night? You knew that I wanted to see you very much. GEORGE. I had something to do. I couldn't get away. ALICE. Then why not have telephoned to me? Maud had opera tickets given her--I missed "Tristan," waiting for you. GEORGE. At last we have the real cause of your bad humor, which is not on account of my non-appearance but your missing "Tristan und Isolde." ALICE. You know, George, that that isn't true. GEORGE. You started this argument--why cry if you are hurt? ALICE. Cry? GEORGE. It's the same as crying--and tears, you know how I hate them. ALICE. Unless they be sprinkled on withered rose leaves, yes! GEORGE. It's always the same thing; you constantly insult my taste and brain. ALICE. No, not your real taste and brain--they are fine and great. I only insult the veneer. I try to show you yourself,--this part I will save for you and sometime return to its owner intact. GEORGE. Save?--how can you save something which you have never had? ALICE. That is my affair. MAUD (from the tea table, her voice raised in an exciting discussion). Bernard Shaw-- GEORGE (to himself). Bernard Shaw? (To Alice.) Well, save yourself the trouble, I will never accept that from anyone--my real self. (Nervously.) Alice, don't bother about me--I don't want you to, do you understand? ALICE (laughs). You dare to command me? Well, let us both play the same game. Tell me--why didn't you come to see me last night--what did you do? GEORGE. I did nothing. I wished to be alone. Solitude and silence produce great art, I believe. ALICE. Not when one is our age! GEORGE. Alice, I don't understand you to-day. For some time I've been thinking that you were changing; losing the fine sense of appreciation which you have always had for so many things in life and in art. Now, I am sure of it. ALICE. Don't you understand? Well, as I said--solitude is for the aged.