JANET. Well, honestly, I shouldn't have thought it.
CARVE. "My age is forty-five. By a strange coincidence Mr. Carve has
suggested to me that we set out for England to-morrow. At Dover I will
telegraph you with a rendezvous. In great haste. Till then, my dear Mrs.
Cannot, believe me," etc.
JANET. You didn't send a photograph.
CARVE. Perhaps I was afraid of prejudicing you in advance.
JANET. (Laughs.) Eh, Mr. Shawn! There's thousands of young gentlemen
alive and kicking in London this minute that would give a great deal to
be only half as good looking as you are. And so you're a bachelor?
CARVE. Oh, quite.
JANET. Two bachelors, as you say, knocking about Europe together. (CARVE
laughs quietly but heartily to himself.) By the way, how is Mr. Carve?
I hope he's better.
CARVE. Mr. Carve?...(Suddenly stops laughing.) Oh! (Lamely,
casually.) He's dead!
JANET. (Stocked.) Dead? When?
CARVE. Early this morning.
JANET. (Rising.) And us chattering away like this. Why didn't you tell
me at once, Mr.
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