n which I'm
not a bit in earnest.

MRS HUSHABYE. Oh, neither is Addy. She has never been in love in her
life, though she has always been trying to fall in head over ears. She
is worse than you, because you had one real go at least, with me.

HECTOR. That was a confounded madness. I can't believe that such an
amazing experience is common. It has left its mark on me. I believe that
is why I have never been able to repeat it.

MRS HUSHABYE [laughing and caressing his arm]. We were frightfully in
love with one another, Hector. It was such an enchanting dream that I
have never been able to grudge it to you or anyone else since. I have
invited all sorts of pretty women to the house on the chance of giving
you another turn. But it has never come off.

HECTOR. I don't know that I want it to come off. It was damned
dangerous. You fascinated me; but I loved you; so it was heaven. This
sister of yours fascinates me; but I hate her; so it is hell. I shall
kill her if she persists.

MRS. HUSHABYE. Nothing will kill Addy; she is as strong as a horse.
[Releasing him]. Now I am going off to fascinate somebody.

HECTOR. The Foreign Office toff? Randall?

MRS HUSHABYE. Goodness gracious, no! Why should I fascinate him?

HECTOR. I presume you don't mean the bloated capitalist, Mangan?

MRS HUSHABYE. Hm! I think he had better be fascinated by me than by
Ellie. [She is going into the garden when the captain comes in from it
with some sticks in his hand]. What have you got there, daddiest?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Dynamite.

MRS HUSHABYE. You've been to the gravel pit. Don't drop it about the
house, there's a dear. [She goes into the garden, where the evening
light is now very red].

HECTOR. Listen, O sage. How long dare you concentrate on a feeling
without risking having it fixed in your consciousness all the rest of
your life?

CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Ninety minutes. An hour and a half. [He goes into the
pantry].

Hector, left alone, contracts his brows, and falls into a day-dream. He
does not move for some time. Then he folds his arms. Then, throwing his
hands behind him, and gripping one with the other, he strides tragically
once to and fro. Suddenly he snatches his walking stick from the teak
table, and draws it; for it is a swordstick. He fights a desperate
duel with an imaginary antagonist, and after many vicissitudes runs him
through the body up to the hilt. He sheathes his sword and throws it on
the sofa, falling into another