Are merely another proof of my passion for duty. The British public wants its poets to lead romantic lives.
HILDA.
Are you ever serious?
BRACKLEY.
May I come to lunch with you on Thursday?
HILDA.
[_A little surprised._] Certainly. But why on Thursday?
BRACKLEY.
Because on that day I intend to ask you to marry me.
HILDA.
[_With a smile._] I'm sorry, I've just remembered that I'm lunching out.
BRACKLEY.
You break my heart.
HILDA.
On the contrary, I provide you with the materials for a sonnet.
BRACKLEY.
Won't you marry me?
HILDA.
No.
BRACKLEY.
Why not?
HILDA.
[_Amused._] I'm not in the least in love with you.
BRACKLEY.
People who propose to marry should ask themselves if they can look forward with equanimity to breakfasting opposite one another for an indefinite number of years.
HILDA.
You're very unromantic.
BRACKLEY.
My dear lady, if you want romance I'll send you my complete works bound in vellum. I've ground out ten volumes of romance to Phyllis and Chloe and heaven knows who. The Lord save me from a romantic wife.
HILDA.
But I'm afraid I'm hopelessly romantic.
BRACKLEY.
Well, six months of marriage with a poet will cure you.
HILDA.
I'd rather not be cured.
BRACKLEY.
Won't you be in to luncheon on Thursday?
HILDA.
No.
[_The_ BUTLER _comes in_.
BUTLER.
Mr. Halliwell, Mr. Kent.
[BASIL _and_ JOHN _appear_, _and at the same moment_ MABEL _comes in from the room in which she has been telephoning_.
MABEL.
[_To_ JOHN.] Wretched creature! I've been trying to ring you up.
JOHN.
Have I kept you waiting? I went down to Chancery Lane with Basil.
[JOHN _turns to shake hands with_ HILDA _and_ BRACKLEY, _while_ BASIL, _who has said how d'you do to_ HILDA, _comes down to speak to_ MABEL. _The conversation between_ MABEL _and_ BASIL _is in an undertone_.
BASIL.
How d'you do. You must scold me for keeping John so long.