shouldn't have minded; but I like you ever so much better for
being nice to him.

MARCHBANKS. Ought I to have laughed? I noticed that he said
something funny; but I am so ill at ease with strangers; and I
never can see a joke! I'm very sorry. (He sits down on the sofa,
his elbows on his knees and his temples between his fists, with
an expression of hopeless suffering.)

CANDIDA (bustling him goodnaturedly). Oh, come! You great baby,
you! You are worse than usual this morning. Why were you so
melancholy as we came along in the cab?

MARCHBANKS. Oh, that was nothing. I was wondering how much I
ought to give the cabman. I know it's utterly silly; but you
don't know how dreadful such things are to me--how I shrink from
having to deal with strange people. (Quickly and reassuringly.)
But it's all right. He beamed all over and touched his hat when
Morell gave him two shillings. I was on the point of offering him
ten. (Candida laughs heartily. Morell comes back with a few
letters and newspapers which have come by the midday post.)

CANDIDA. Oh, James, dear, he was going to give the cabman ten
shillings--ten shillings for a three minutes' drive--oh, dear!

MORELL (at the table, glancing through the letters). Never mind
her, Marchbanks. The overpaying instinct is a generous one:
better than the underpaying instinct, and not so common.

MARCHBANKS (relapsing into dejection). No: cowardice,