CULVER (_sardonic_.) Complete? Absolute?

TRANTO. You have--er--jockeyed Mrs.--er--the sex into committing itself
quite definitely against titles. Hence I look on your position as
impregnable.

CULVER. Good heavens, Tranto! How old are you?

TRANTO. Twenty-five.

CULVER. A quarter of a century--and you haven't learnt that no position
is impregnable against--er--the sex! You never know where the offensive
will come, nor when, nor how. The offensive is bound to be a surprise.
You aren't married. When you are you'll soon find out that being a
husband is a whole-time job. That's why so many husbands fail. They
can't give their entire attention to it. Tranto, my position must be
still further strengthened--during dinner. It can't be strengthened too
much. I've brought you into the conspiracy because you're on the spot
and I want you to play up.

TRANTO. Certainly, sir.

CULVER. The official letter _might_ come by to-night's post. If it does,
a considerable amount of histrionic skill will be needed.

TRANTO. Trust me for that.

CULVER. Oh! I do! Indeed I fancy after all I'm fairly safe. There's only
one danger.