TRANTO. Sorry! Sorry! Do be merciful! My feelings about you at this very moment are so, if I may use the term, unbridled-- HILDEGARDE (_with false gentle calm_). And that's not all. I suppose you haven't by any chance told father that I'm Sampson Straight? TRANTO. Certainly not. HILDEGARDE. You're sure? TRANTO. Absolutely. HILDEGARDE. Well, I'm sorry. TRANTO. Why? HILDEGARDE (_quietly sarcastic_). Because papa told me you did tell him. Therefore father is a liar. I don't like being the daughter of a liar. I hate liars. TRANTO. Aren't you rather cutting yourself off from mankind? HILDEGARDE (_going straight on_). For the last day or two father had been giving me such queer little digs every now and then that I began to suspect he knew who Sampson Straight was. So I asked him right out this morning--he was in bed--and he had to acknowledge he did know and that you told him. TRANTO. Well, I didn't exactly tell him. He sort of guessed, and I-- HILDEGARDE (_calmly, relentlessly_). You told him. TRANTO. No. I merely admitted it. You think I ought to have denied it? HILDEGARDE. Of course you ought to have denied it. TRANTO. But it was true. HILDEGARDE. And if it was? TRANTO. If it was true, how could I deny it? You've just said you hate liars. HILDEGARDE (_losing self-control_). Please don't be absurd. TRANTO (_a little nettled_). I apologise. HILDEGARDE. What for? TRANTO. For having put you in the wrong. It's such shocking bad diplomacy for any man to put any woman in the wrong. HILDEGARDE (_angrily_). Man--woman! Man--woman! There you are! It's always the same with you males. Sex! Sex! Sex! TRANTO (_quite conquering his annoyance; persuasively_). But I'm fatally in love with you. HILDEGARDE. Well, of course there you have the advantage of me. TRANTO. Don't you care a little-- HILDEGARDE (_letting herself go_). Why should I care? What have I done to make you imagine I care? It's quite true that I've saved your newspaper from an early grave. It was suffering from rickets, spinal curvature, and softening of the brain; and I've performed a miraculous cure on it with my articles. I'm Sampson Straight. But that's not enough for you. You can't keep sentiment out of business. No man ever could. You'd like Sampson Straight to wear blouses and bracelets for you, and loll on sofas for you, and generally offer you the glad eye. It's an insult. And then on the top of all, you go and give the whole show away to papa, in spite of our understanding; and if papa hadn't been the greatest dear in the world you might have got me into the most serious difficulties. TRANTO (_equably, after a pause_), I don't think I'll ask myself to stay for lunch. HILDEGARDE. Good morning. TRANTO (_near the door_). I suppose I'd better announce that he's died very suddenly under mysterious circumstances? HILDEGARDE. Who? TRANTO. Sampson Straight. HILDEGARDE. And what about my new article, that you've got in hand?