[_Banteringly._] You astonish me, my dear Kate. Surely it can’t have slipped your memory that Robert Colby, snatching a brief and well-earned holiday from affairs of state, made a tour of North Italy last Easter, and you accompanied him. CATHERINE. [_Flaring up._] That’s not true. You know it’s not true. I went with Barbara Herbert.... GEORGE WINTER. [_Interrupting, with a twinkle in his eye._] And a maid. It’s always a little unsafe to trust maids, especially Scotch maids with strongly religious principles. CATHERINE. What have you been doing? GEORGE WINTER. [_Taking a paper out of his pocket._] Here is another interesting little document that I’ve been at some pains to acquire. Being, alas! aware that the wife of my bosom might--turn troublesome one day or another, I thought it safe to have a weapon in my hand for future use. It is a list of the hotels at which you stayed. Shall I read it to you? CATHERINE. If you choose. GEORGE WINTER. [_Hugely amused._] At Milan you stayed at the _Palace_, and Robert Colby at the _Cavour_. CATHERINE. [_Sarcastically._] Damning, isn’t it? GEORGE WINTER. But perhaps finding the _Palace_ noisy, and trusting in Mr. Robert Colby’s better judgment, at Venice you both stayed at the _Danielli_. CATHERINE. [_With a shrug of the shoulders._] Where else should one stay? GEORGE WINTER. I find in my Baedeker that there are twenty-seven hotels in Venice, but I daresay it was very natural that you should both hit upon the _Danielli_. And you took the precaution of arriving twenty hours after him. But at Ravenna, flinging prudence to the winds, you arrived on the same day, by the same train, and you put up at the same hotel. CATHERINE. There is only one. GEORGE WINTER. You had rooms seventeen and eighteen, and Barbara Herbert had room five. CATHERINE. There was only one vacant room on the first floor, and of course I insisted that Barbara should take it. GEORGE WINTER. Unselfish in the extreme, and just like you, my dear; but don’t you think it was a little indiscreet? CATHERINE. We had nothing to be ashamed of, and therefore we had nothing to fear. GEORGE WINTER. I’ve often thought that was the greatest drawback of innocence. It makes one so devilish imprudent. CATHERINE. I went to Italy with your express consent. I wrote and told you that I’d met Robert Colby. Chance threw us together in Venice; we found we were making practically the same tour, and we joined forces. I saw no harm in it. I see no harm in it now. You can make what use of the admissions you like. GEORGE WINTER. And do you think you will be able to persuade a British jury that you and Robert Colby travelled through Italy together merely to look at churches and pictures? CATHERINE. George, I know now that I never cared for you, but I promise you on my word of honour that I’ve never been unfaithful to you. GEORGE WINTER.