. . dictated by yourself.
MRS. CHEVELEY. At that time I was poor; you were rich.
LORD GORING. Quite so. That is why you pretended to love me.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [Shrugging her shoulders.] Poor old Lord Mortlake,
who had only two topics of conversation, his gout and his wife! I
never could quite make out which of the two he was talking about. He
used the most horrible language about them both. Well, you were
silly, Arthur. Why, Lord Mortlake was never anything more to me
than an amusement. One of those utterly tedious amusements one only
finds at an English country house on an English country Sunday. I
don't think any one at all morally responsible for what he or she
does at an English country house.
LORD GORING. Yes. I know lots of people think that.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I loved you, Arthur.
LORD GORING. My dear Mrs. Cheveley, you have always been far too
clever to know anything about love.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I did love you. And you loved me. You know you
loved me; and love is a very wonderful thing. I suppose that when a
man has once loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except
continue to love her? [Puts her hand on his.]
LORD GORING. [Taking his hand away quietly.] Yes: except that.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [After a pause.] I am tired of living abroad. I
want to come back to London. I want to have a charming house here.
I want to have a salon.
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