She. I think I will. Oh! Look at the mist coming over Sanjaoli; and I thought we should have sunshine on the Ladies’ Mile! Let’s turn back. He. What’s the good? There’s a cloud on Elysium Hill, and that means it’s foggy all down the Mall. We’ll go on. It’ll blow away before we get to the Convent, perhaps. ‘Jove! It is chilly. She. You feel it, fresh from below. Put on your ulster. What do you think of my cape? He. Never ask a man his opinion of a woman’s dress when he is desperately and abjectly in love with the wearer. Let me look. Like everything else of yours it’s perfect. Where did you get it from? She. He gave it me, on Wednesday our wedding-day, you know. He. The Deuce He did! He’s growing generous in his old age. D’you like all that frilly, bunchy stuff at the throat? I don’t. She. Don’t you? Kind Sir, o’ your courtesy, As you go by the town, Sir, ‘Pray you o’ your love for me, Buy me a russet gown, Sir. He. I won’t say: ‘Keek into the draw-well, Janet, Janet.’ Only wait a little, darling, and you shall be stocked with russet gowns and everything else. She. And when the frocks wear out you’ll get me new ones and everything else? He. Assuredly. She. I wonder! He. Look here, Sweetheart, I didn’t spend two days and two nights in the train to hear you wonder. I thought we’d settled all that at Shaifazehat. She. (dreamily). At Shaifazehat? Does the Station go on still? That was ages and ages ago. It must be crumbling to pieces. All except the Amirtollah kutcha road. I don’t believe that could crumble till the Day of Judgment. He. You think so? What is the mood now? She. I can’t tell. How cold it is! Let us get on quickly. He. ‘Better walk a little. Stop your jhampanies and get out. What’s the matter with you this evening, dear? She. Nothing. You must grow accustomed to my ways. If I’m boring you I can go home. Here’s Captain Congleton coming, I daresay he’ll be willing to escort me. He. Goose! Between us, too! Damn Captain Congleton. She. Chivalrous Knight. Is it your habit to swear much in talking? It jars a little, and you might swear at me. He. My angel! I didn’t know what I was saying; and you changed so quickly that I couldn’t follow. I’ll apologise in dust and ashes. She. There’ll be enough of those later on Good-night, Captain Congleton. Going to the singing-quadrilles already? What dances am I giving you next week? No! You must have written them down wrong. Five and Seven, I said. If you’ve made a mistake, I certainly don’t intend to suffer for it. You must alter your programme. He. I thought you told me that you had not been going out much this season? She. Quite true, but when I do I dance with Captain Congleton. He dances very nicely. He. And sit out with him, I suppose? She. Yes. Have you any objection? Shall I stand under the chandelier in future? He. What does he talk to you about? She. What do men talk about when they sit out?