JOANNA. He wants you to whisper in his ear, Mabel, the entrancing
poem, 'Mabel Purdie.' Do it, Jack; there will be nothing wrong in it
now.

PURDIE. Rub it in.

MABEL. When I meet Joanna's successor--

PURDIE (quailing). No, no, Mabel none of that. At least credit me with
having my eyes open at last. There will be no more of this. I swear
it by all that is--

JOANNA (in her excellent imitation of a sheep). Baa-a, he is off
again.

PURDIE. Oh Lord, so I am.

MABEL. Don't, Joanna.

PURDIE (his mind still illumined). She is quite right--I was. In my
present state of depression--which won't last--I feel there is
something in me that will make me go on being the same ass, however
many chances I get. I haven't the stuff in me to take warning. My
whole being is corroded. Shakespeare knew what he was talking
about--'The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in
ourselves, that we are underlings.'

JOANNA. For 'dear Brutus' we are to read 'dear audience' I suppose?