PHILIP (rising with grave politeness). Come, Dolly. (He gives her
his arm.)

DOLLY. Good morning. (They go together to the door with perfect
dignity.)

VALENTINE (overwhelmed with remorse). Oh, stop, stop. (They halt
and turn, arm in arm.) You make me feel a perfect beast.

DOLLY. That's your conscience: not us.

VALENTINE (energetically, throwing off all pretence of a professional
manner). My conscience! My conscience has been my ruin. Listen to me.
Twice before I have set up as a respectable medical practitioner in
various parts of England. On both occasions I acted conscientiously,
and told my patients the brute truth instead of what they wanted to be
told. Result, ruin. Now I've set up as a dentist, a five shilling
dentist; and I've done with conscience forever. This is my last chance.
I spent my last sovereign on moving in; and I haven't paid a shilling of
rent yet. I'm eating and drinking on credit; my landlord is as rich as
a Jew and as hard as nails; and I've made five shillings in six weeks.
If I swerve by a hair's breadth from the straight line of the most rigid
respectability, I'm done for. Under such a circumstance, is it fair to
ask me to lunch with you when you don't know your own father?

DOLLY. After all, our grandfather is a canon of Lincoln Cathedral.

VALENTINE (like a castaway mariner who sees a sail on the horizon).
What! Have you a grandfather?