call me Sandy.

BOBBY. Well, you see what I mean, Sandy.

MELISANDE. It isn't that, Bobby. It isn't that.

BOBBY. You know, I was thinking about it last night--afterwards, you
know--and I began to see, I began to see that perhaps you were right.
I mean about my not being romantic and--and all that. I mean, I'm
rather an ordinary sort of chap, and----

MELISANDE (sadly). We are all rather ordinary sort of chaps.

BOBBY (eagerly). No, no. No, that's where you're wrong, Sandy. I mean
Melisande. You _aren't_ ordinary. I don't say you'd be throwing
yourself away on me, but--but I think you could find somebody more
suitable. (Earnestly). I'm sure you could. I mean somebody who would
remember to call you Melisande, and who would read poetry with you
and--and all that. I mean, there are lots of fellows----

MELISANDE. I don't understand. Don't you _want_ to marry me now?

BOBBY (with dignity). I don't want to be married out of pity.

MELISANDE (coldly). I have told you that it isn't out of pity.

BOBBY. Well, what _is_ it out of? I mean, after what you said
yesterday about my tie, it can't be love. If you really loved me----

MELISANDE. Are you under the impression that I am proposing to you?

BOBBY (taken aback). W-what?

MELISANDE. Are you flattering yourself that you are refusing me?

BOBBY. I say, shut up, Sandy. You know it isn't that at all.

MELISANDE. I think you had better join Jane. (Carelessly) It _is_
Jane, isn't it?

BOBBY. I say, look here---- (She doesn't) Of course, I know you think
I'm an awful rotter. . . . Well . . . well--oh, _damn_!

MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you.

(MRS. KNOWLE comes in.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Mr. Coote, Jane is waiting for you.

BOBBY. Oh--er----

MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you.

BOBBY (realising that he is not quite at his best). Er--oh--er,
righto. (He goes to the door and hesitates there) Er--(Now if he can
only think of something really good, he may yet carry it off.)
Er--(something really witty)--er--er, righto! (He goes out--to join
JANE, who is waiting for him.)

MRS. KNOWLE (in a soft gentle voice). Where is your father, dear? In
the library with Mr. Mallory? . . . I want to speak to him. Just on a
little matter of business. . . . Dear child!

[She goes to the library.

MELISANDE. Oh! How horrible!

(She walks about, pulling at her handkerchief and telling herself that
she won't cry. But she feels that she is going to, and she goes to the
o