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NANCY (awed). To me?

BROXOPP. To you. It was the nail-brush.

NANCY. The nail-brush?

BROXOPP. Yes, you told me the other day to buy a nail-brush. (Looking at his fingers) You were quite right. As you said, a gentleman is known by his hands. I hadn’t thought of it before. Always tell me, darling. Well, I went into a chemist’s. Fordyce had given me fifteen guineas. I had the odd shillings in my pocket and I suddenly remembered. There was a very nice gentlemanly young fellow behind the counter, and as sometimes happens on these occasions, I got into conversation with him.

NANCY (smiling to herself). Yes, darling.

BROXOPP. I told him something of my outlook on life. I spoke of the lack of imagination which is the curse of this country, instancing the man Spenlow as an example of the type with whom we artists had to ssss1deal. He interrupted me to say that he had found it so, too. A patent food which he had composed in his leisure moments—I broke in hastily. “Tell me of your food,” I said. “Perhaps,” and I smote my breast, “perhaps I am the capitalist for whom you look.”