She. I? Oh! I don't know. I've had long enough to think, too.

He. And you've changed your mind?

She. No. You ought to know that I am a miracle of constancy.
What are your arrangements?

He. Ours, Sweetheart, please.

She. Ours, be it then. My poor boy, how the prickly heat has
marked your forehead! Have you ever tried sulphate of copper in
water?

He. It'll go away in a day or two up here. The arrangements are
simple enough. Tonga in the early morning reach Kalka at twelve
Umballa at seven down, straight by night train, to Bombay, and
then the steamer of the 21st for Rome. That's my idea. The
Continent and Sweden a ten-week honeymoon.

She. Ssh! Don't talk of it in that way. It makes me afraid. Guy, how
long have we two been insane?

He. Seven months and fourteen days, I forget the odd hours
exactly, but I'll think.

She. I only wanted to see if you remembered. Who are those two
on the Blessington Road?

He. Eabrey and the Penner Woman. What do they matter to us?