CARVE. (Slightly hurt.) Oh, not so bad as that! And then it's only
fair to say he has his moments of great daring--you may say rashness.
PASCOE. All timid people are like that.
CARVE. Are they? (Musing.) We're here now owing to one of his moments
of rashness.
PASCOE. Indeed!
CARVE. Yes. We met an English lady in a village in Andalusia, and--well,
of course, I can't tell you everything--but she flirted with him and he
flirted with her.
PASCOE. Under his own name?
CARVE. Yes. And then he proposed to her. I knew all along it was a
blunder.
PASCOE. (Ironic.) Did you?
CARVE. Yes. She belonged to the aristocracy, and she was one of those
amateur painters that wander about the Continent by themselves--you
know.
PASCOE. And did she accept?
CARVE. Oh yes. They got as far as Madrid together, and then all of a
sudden my esteemed saw that he had made a mistake.
PASCOE. And what then?
CARVE. We fled the country. We hooked it. The idea of coming to London
struck him--just the caprice of a man who's lost his head--and here we
are.
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