OCTAVIUS.
It's quite simple.
I love you; and I want you to be happy.
You don't love me; so I can't make you happy myself; but I can help another man to do it.
ANN.
Yes: it seems quite simple.
But I doubt if we ever know why we do things.
The only really simple thing is to go straight for what you want and grab it.
I suppose I don't love you, Tavy; but sometimes I feel as if I should like to make a man of you somehow.
You are very foolish about women.
OCTAVIUS. [almost coldly] I am content to be what I am in that respect.
ANN.
Then you must keep away from them, and only dream about them.
I wouldn't marry you for worlds, Tavy.
OCTAVIUS.
I have no hope, Ann: I accept my ill luck.
But I don't think you quite know how much it hurts.
ANN.
You are so softhearted!
It's queer that you should be so different from Violet.
Violet's as hard as nails.
OCTAVIUS.
Oh no.
I am sure Violet is thoroughly womanly at heart.
ANN. [with some impatience] Why do you say that?
Is it unwomanly to be thoughtful and businesslike and sensible?
Do you want Violet to be an idiot—or something worse, like me?
OCTAVIUS.
Something worse—like you!
What do you mean, Ann?
ANN.
Oh well, I don't mean that, of course.
But I have a great respect for Violet.
She gets her own way always.
OCTAVIUS. [sighing] So do you.
ANN.
Yes; but somehow she gets it without coaxing—without having to make people sentimental about her.
OCTAVIUS. [with brotherly callousness] Nobody could get very sentimental about Violet, I think, pretty as she is.
ANN.
Oh yes they could, if she made them.
OCTAVIUS.
But surely no really nice woman would deliberately practise on men's instincts in that way.
ANN. [throwing up her hands] Oh Tavy, Tavy, Ricky Ticky Tavy, heaven help the woman who marries you!
OCTAVIUS. [his passion reviving at the name] Oh why, why, why do you say that?
Don't torment me.
I don't understand.
ANN.
Suppose she were to tell fibs, and lay snares for men?
OCTAVIUS.
Do you think I could marry such a woman—I, who have known and loved you?