I wont have it, Rejjy. It's disgusting.
THE BISHOP. You see, my dear, youll exhaust Sinjon's conversation
too in a week or so. A man is like a phonograph with half-a-dozen
records. You soon get tired of them all; and yet you have to sit
at table whilst he reels them off to every new visitor. In the
end you have to be content with his common humanity; and when you
come down to that, you find out about men what a great English
poet of my acquaintance used to say about women: that they all
taste alike. Marry whom you please: at the end of a month he'll
be Reginald over again. It wasnt worth changing: indeed it wasnt.
LEO. Then it's a mistake to get married.
THE BISHOP. It is, my dear; but it's a much bigger mistake not to
get married.
THE GENERAL [rising] Ha! You hear that, Lesbia? [He joins her at
the garden door].
LESBIA. Thats only an epigram, Boxer.
THE GENERAL. Sound sense, Lesbia. When a man talks rot, thats
epigram: when he talks sense, then I agree with him.
REGINALD [coming off the oak chest and looking at his watch] It's
getting late. Wheres Edith? Hasnt she got into her veil and
orange blossoms yet?
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Do go and hurry her, Lesbia.
LESBIA [going out through the tower] Come with me, Leo.
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