HYPATIA. _[caressingly]_ Hypatia, Joey. Patsy, if you like.
PERCIVAL. Look here: this is no good. You want to do what you like?
HYPATIA. Dont you?
PERCIVAL. No. Ive been too well brought up. Ive argued all through
this thing; and I tell you I'm not prepared to cast off the social
bond. It's like a corset: it's a support to the figure even if it
does squeeze and deform it a bit. I want to be free.
HYPATIA. Well, I'm tempting you to be free.
PERCIVAL. Not at all. Freedom, my good girl, means being able to
count on how other people will behave. If every man who dislikes me
is to throw a handful of mud in my face, and every woman who likes me
is to behave like Potiphar's wife, then I shall be a slave: the slave
of uncertainty: the slave of fear: the worst of all slaveries. How
would you like it if every laborer you met in the road were to make
love to you? No. Give me the blessed protection of a good stiff
conventionality among thoroughly well-brought up ladies and gentlemen.
HYPATIA. Another talker! Men like conventions because men made them.
I didnt make them: I dont like them: I wont keep them. Now, what
will you do?