CUSINS. No. Every true Englishman detests the English. We are the wickedest nation on earth; and our success is a moral horror.
UNDERSHAFT. That is what comes of your gospel of love, is it?
CUSINS. May I not love even my father–in–law?
UNDERSHAFT. Who wants your love, man? By what right do you take the liberty of offering it to me? I will have your due heed and respect, or I will kill you. But your love! Damn your impertinence!
CUSINS [grinning] I may not be able to control my affections, Mac.
UNDERSHAFT. You are fencing, Euripides. You are weakening: your grip is slipping. Come! try your last weapon. Pity and love have broken in your hand: forgiveness is still left.
CUSINS. No: forgiveness is a beggar's refuge. I am with you there: we must pay our debts.
UNDERSHAFT. Well said. Come
