I cant help that ridiculous old
shopkeeper. I have to carry him about with me whether I like it or
not. I have to pay for his clothes, though I hate the cut of them:
especially the waistcoat. I have to look at him in the glass while
I'm shaving. I loathe him because hes a living lie. My soul's not
like that: it's like yours. I want to make a fool of myself. About
you. Will you let me?
LINA. _[very calm]_ How much will you pay?
TARLETON. Nothing. But I'll throw as many sovereigns as you like
into the sea to shew you that I'm in earnest.
LINA. Are those your usual terms?
TARLETON. No. I never made that bid before.
LINA. _[producing a dainty little book and preparing to write in it]_
What did you say your name was?
TARLETON. John Tarleton. The great John Tarleton of Tarleton's
Underwear.
LINA. _[writing]_ T-a-r-l-e-t-o-n. Er--? _[She looks up at him
inquiringly]._
TARLETON. _[promptly]_ Fifty-eight.
LINA. Thank you. I keep a list of all my offers. I like to know
what I'm considered worth.
TARLETON. Let me look.
LINA. _[offering the book to him]_ It's in Polish.
TARLETON. Thats no good. Is mine the lowest offer?
LINA. No: the highest.
TARLETON. What do most of them come to? Diamonds? Motor cars?
Furs? Villa at Monte Carlo?
LINA.
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