stammer.

_Enter_ Elaine.

_Lord G_. Are you coming to ride with me, or going out to drive with
your mother, Elaine?

_El_. Neither, dear papa. I am too busy finishing a paper I am writing
on the "Chiton; or, Clothing for the masses on the principles of the
ideal of the ancient Greeks," for the next meeting of the Women's Dress
Reform Association.

_Lord G_. Well, take care you make them put enough on. Remember the
climate, if you ignore other considerations.

_Lady G_. And pray do not so far overstep the bounds of maidenly modesty
as to consult your Mr Plumper on the subject.

[_Exit_ Lord _and_ Lady Gules.

_El_. [_sighing_]. My Mr Plumper! Ah, Adolphus, there is not a fibre in
our bodies or souls--and why should not souls have fibres?--that does not
vibrate in harmony! We are like AEolian harps that make the same music
to the same airs of the affections, while electrically our brains respond
sympathetically to the same wave-current of idea. Emotionally,
intellectually, we are one. Why should I allow an absurd custom of
conventional civilisation, degrading to the sex, to prevent my telling
him so? What more inherent right can be vested by nature in a woman than
that of telling a man that she loves him, and that, therefore, he belongs
to her? Hark! his step. My Adolphus!