GERALD. That Pamela and I haven't been writing to each other.

MISS FARRINGDON (very innocently). Haven't you?

GERALD. No. You see--oh, I hate discussing Pamela with anyone, but
you're different.

MISS FARRINGDON. I always like that sort of compliment best, Gerald.
The unintended sort.

GERALD. I think, you know, Pamela felt that Bob's doing to prison
might make a difference. I don't mean that she didn't like the
disgrace for herself, but that she was afraid that I mightn't like
it for her; and so she went away, and beyond a letter or two at the
start there hasn't been a Pamela.

MISS FARRINGDON. But Gerald went on being successful?

GERALD. Oh, Aunt Tabitha, Aunt Tabitha, if ever I were going to be
conceited--and I don't think I am really--you'd soon stop it,
wouldn't you? I wonder if you _do_ know me as well as you think. You
think I'm all outside, don't you, and inside there's nothing?

MISS FARRINGDON. Oh, you've got brains, I'll grant you that. You're
the first Farringdon that's had any. Of the men, of course.

GERALD. Oh, brains--I don't mean brains. But you think that
everything only touches me on the surface, and that nothing ever
goes deep inside. You don't believe I ever loved Pamela; you don't
believe I love her now. You don't believe I've got a heart at all.