He. I’m sure of it, if there is any power in steam or horse-flesh to carry us away. Ha! ha!

She. And the fun of the situation comes in—where, my Lancelot?

He. Nowhere, Guinevere. I was only thinking of something.

She. They say men have a keener sense of humour than women. Now I was thinking of the scandal.

He. Don’t think of anything so ugly. We shall be beyond it.

She. It will be there all the same—in the mouths of Simla—telegraphed over India, and talked of at the dinners—and when He goes out they will stare at Him to see how he takes it. And we shall be dead, Guy dear—dead and cast into the outer darkness where there is—

He. Love at least. Isn’t that enough?

She. I have said so.

He. And you think so still?

She. What do you think?

He. What have I done? It means equal ruin to me, as the world reckons it—outcasting, the loss of my appointment, the breaking off my life’s work. I pay my price.

She. And are you so much above the world that you can afford to pay it. Am I?

He. My Divinity—what else?

She. A very ordinary woman, I’m afraid, but so far, respectable. How d’you do, Mrs. Middle-ditch? Your husband? I think he’s riding down to Annandale with Colonel Statters. Yes, isn’t it divine after the rain?—Guy, how long am I to be allowed to bow to Mrs. Middleditch? Till the 17th?

He. Frowsy Scotchwoman! What is the use of bringing her into the discussion? You were saying?

She. Nothing. Have you ever seen a man hanged?

He. Yes. Once.

She. What was it for?

He. Murder, of course.

She. Murder. Is that so great a sin after all? I wonder how he felt before the drop fell.

He. I don’t think he felt much. What a gruesome little woman it is this evening! You’re shivering. Put on your cape, dear.

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?