What about Paris?
Flora. Oh, not Paris.
Cedric. Why not?
Flora. We should be simply mobbed. My dearest boy, have you ever heard speak of the simplicity of genius?
Cedric. I seem to have read about it somewhere, perhaps in the ladies' papers.
Flora. Well, you won't understand it, because you've got it – acutely.
Cedric. And here all these years I've been taking myself for rather a crafty person!
Flora. Do you know how many times I've counted your portrait in the weeklies this year? One hundred and forty-six! And that's not reckoning the pictures where your aeroplane's so high up that you only look like a fly in a mouse-trap.
Cedric. In my simple mind I'd always thought that the surest way never to be recognised in the street was to have your portrait in the papers.
Flora. And then there's your likeness to your mother! A hundred and fifty-one thousand copies of your dear mother's last novel sold up to yesterday – so I saw in the "Telegraph." And then her new novel out to-day!
Cedric. I'm not suggesting that we should camp out in Piccadilly for our honeymoon, my dove and my love; I said Paris.
Flora. All London will be in Paris.
Cedric. What – next week?
Flora. Every week. Excuse me asking a pointed question, dearest, but have you ever been to Paris – I mean, since the flood?
Cedric. Yes. My knowledge of the unwieldy goods department of the big railway stations is probably matchless.
Flora. Well, if you'd stepped outside the stations you'd know that Paris is now exclusively inhabited by nice respectable people from London and nice respectable people from Arizona; and when they aren't cricking their necks to look at aeroplanes, they're improving their minds with your dear mother's latest novel.
Cedric. (Mock serious.) Will you believe me – I'd no notion of this at all!
Flora. I tell you what – I wouldn't mind going to Paris under an assumed name.
Cedric. Oh, no!
Flora. Why not? It would be amusing.
Cedric. I don't see myself travelling under a false name. I suppose I am too English.
Flora. Well, I don't see myself in a Paris hotel as the bride of the most celebrated English aviator, and the daughter-in-law of the most celebrated English lady-novelist. I do not! (With a characteristic gesture.) Mobbed isn't the word for what we should be.
Cedric. (Gazing at her.) You must have noticed that I'm not what you'd call gushing. I've known myself go for a month without using a single superlative; but really, my most dear girl, my Fluffiest, when you strike an attitude like that, you're more marvellously and ineffably adorable than ever. Your beauty, your charm, your enormous slap-upness – (changing his tone) – Well, ecstasy is not my line… I only said Paris because the mater asked me if I thought we should be going there, and I told her it was possible.
Flora. Will she be there?
Cedric. No, no! Only, if we should happen to go there, she wanted me to count the panes of glass in a lamp-post on the Alexander III. bridge. One of her realistic details, you know. I expect she's got her hero staring absently up at that lamp-post – after an indiscreet evening… She may be depending on me.
Flora. But surely that isn't a reason why we should go to Paris! Your dear mother might have wanted to know the number of ribs in the umbrella of the King of Siam – should we have had to book to Bangkok?
Cedric. I was only —
Flora. Husband, I must tell you something about your mother. I've kept it a secret from you. Do you know what made her give up her terrific scheme of our being married in the cathedral by the Bishop, surrounded by the press of Europe?
Cedric. I thought our angel-tongues persuaded her out of it.
Flora. Not at all. A threat did it. I dropped in on her one day for a little private chat while you were at Blackpool. She was just going to arrange with the Bishop. I told her confidentially – but of course nicely– that if she wouldn't agree to us being married by a curate at Chelmsford, with nobody but her and your father and Charlie present, and nothing whatever in the papers for at least a fortnight, then I should insist on being married at a registry office.
Cedric. The deuce you did! What did she say?
Flora. She merely said: "Of course your wish is our law, Mrs. Lloyd." But the next day she was calling me "Flora" again.
Cedric. The mater folded up like that?
Flora. There! (Laughing.) Listen to your own tone, dearest. Naturally she folded up. She only needs proper treatment.
Cedric. Well, I had a bit of a stir with her when I decided to give up my amateur status; but I must say as a rule I get on very well with the mater.
Flora. So do I. It's because I get on so well with her that we had a curate to-day instead of the Bishop. Rather a jolly curate, didn't you think?
Cedric. Struck me as a queer lot.
Flora. Of course they're all queer. I liked him because when he asked me to sign my name he didn't say (imitating the snigger of a curate) "for the last time." They always do, you know. It's almost part of the service, for them. And if he had said it, I do believe I should have screamed.
Cedric. I say, Fluff, why after hiding this secret for several weeks – it's practically a double life that you've been leading – why do you reveal it just at this particular moment?
Flora. Oh – sheer caprice, my dearest! It just popped into my head.
Cedric. (Somewhat troubled and awkward.) So your notion is that the mater's moral empire over her family and the British public might be checked without grave loss of life, eh?
Flora. Cedric! (Cedric looks at her, arrested and questioning.) What's the rarest thing in the world? Quick?
Cedric. Common-sense, of course.
Flora. Oh! Good! I was afraid you might say a well-cooked potato.
Cedric. You ought to know me better than that.
Flora. But, Cedric, it's only now that we're beginning to make each other's acquaintance.
Cedric. That's true! But how did you know that common-sense is the rarest thing in the world?
Flora. Because I've got so very little of it myself. But even a very little will go a long way. Now, have I told you that our marriage isn't going to be like ordinary marriages – I mean, really?
Cedric. Well, you haven't exactly told me, but you've allowed me to suspect the fact.
Flora. Most marriages, and especially most honeymoons, are third-rate simply because the people concerned in them don't bring their bit of common-sense to bear on the problems that are (mock platform manner) – er – continually arising. (Laughing.) I intend to keep
