Come now! you ask my advice about Miss Reilly?

DOYLE [reddening]. No I don't. Damn your advice! [Softening]
Let's have it, all the same.

BROADBENT. Well, everything you tell me about her impresses me
favorably. She seems to have the feelings of a lady; and though
we must face the fact that in England her income would hardly
maintain her in the lower middle class--

DOYLE [interrupting]. Now look here, Tom. That reminds me. When
you go to Ireland, just drop talking about the middle class and
bragging of belonging to it. In Ireland you're either a gentleman
or you're not. If you want to be particularly offensive to Nora,
you can call her a Papist; but if you call her a middle-class
woman, Heaven help you!

BROADBENT [irrepressible]. Never fear. You're all descended from
the ancient kings: I know that. [Complacently] I'm not so
tactless as you think, my boy. [Earnest again] I expect to find
Miss Reilly a perfect lady; and I strongly advise you to come and
have another look at her before you make up your mind about her.
By the way, have you a photograph of her?

DOYLE. Her photographs stopped at twenty-five.

BROADBENT [saddened]. Ah yes, I suppose so. [With feeling,
severely] Larry: you've treated that poor girl disgracefully.

DOYLE. By George, if she only knew that two men were talking