and businesslike and sensible? Do you want Violet to be an
idiot--or something worse, like me?

OCTAVIUS. Something worse--like you! What do you mean, Ann?

ANN. Oh well, I don't mean that, of course. But I have a great respect
for Violet. She gets her own way always.

OCTAVIUS. [sighing] So do you.

ANN. Yes; but somehow she gets it without coaxing--without having to
make people sentimental about her.

OCTAVIUS. [with brotherly callousness] Nobody could get very sentimental
about Violet, I think, pretty as she is.

ANN. Oh yes they could, if she made them.

OCTAVIUS. But surely no really nice woman would deliberately practise on
men's instincts in that way.

ANN. [throwing up her hands] Oh Tavy, Tavy, Ricky Ticky Tavy, heaven
help the woman who marries you!

OCTAVIUS. [his passion reviving at the name] Oh why, why, why do you say
that? Don't torment me. I don't understand.

ANN. Suppose she were to tell fibs, and lay snares for men?

OCTAVIUS. Do you think I could marry such a woman--I, who have known and
loved you?

ANN. Hm! Well, at all events, she wouldn't let you if she were wise. So
that's settled. And now I can't talk any more. Say you forgive me, and
that the subject is closed.

OCTAVIUS. I have nothing to forgive; and the subject is closed. And if
the wound is open, at least you shall never see it bleed.

ANN. Poetic to the last, Tavy. Goodbye, dear. [She pats his check;
has an impulse to kiss him and then another impulse of distaste which
prevents her; finally runs away through the garden and into the villa].

Octavius again takes refuge at the table, bowing his head on his arms
and sobbing softly. Mrs Whitefield, who has been pottering round the
Granada shops, and has a net full of little parcels in her hand, comes
in through the gate and sees him.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [running to him and lifting his head] What's the matter,
Tavy? Are you ill?

OCTAVIUS. No, nothing, nothing.

MRS WHITEFIELD. [still holding his head, anxiously] But you're crying.
Is it about Violet's marriage?

OCTAVIUS. No, no. Who told you about Violet?

MRS WHITEFIELD. [restoring the head to its owner] I met Roebuck and that
awful old Irishman. Are you sure you're not ill? What's the matter?

OCTAVIUS. [affectionately] It's nothing--only a man's broken heart.
Doesn't that sound ridiculous?

MRS WHITEFIELD. But what is it all about? Has Ann been doing anything to
you?

OCTAVIUS. It's not Ann's fault. And don't thin