I'm afraid you've come to tell me Posket is ill.
[_A sharp gust of wind is heard with the rain._
[_Glancing at the window._] Is he? I wish we all were.
[_To herself._] Sunstroke evidently. Poor fellow! [_To LUKYN._] I assure you my husband is at home, quite well, and by this time sleeping soundly.
[_CIS and MR. POSKET are heard laughing in the next room._
[_Within._] You are two funny gentlemen, I beg your pardon.
In the next room. [_Raps at the door._] Hush--hush, hush!
Get it over, Aggy, and let us go home. I am so awfully hungry.
[_Peering through the curtains._] It is still bearing him. What's his weight? Surely he can't scale over ten stone. Lord, how wet he is!
[_Leaving the window sharply._] Madam, command me!
Colonel Lukyn, we knew each other at Baroda twenty years ago.
[_To herself._] Oh, I feel quite out of this.
You remember what a fine little fellow he was.
[_Thoughtfully._] Not a pound over ten stone.
I beg your pardon, yes--I was at the christening of your boy.
[_To herself._] One of the worst cases of sunstroke I have ever known.
I remember the child very well. Has he still got that absurd mug?
You misunderstand me! I was his godfather; I gave him a silver cup.
Oh, do excuse me. How did I become acquainted with such a vulgar expression? I don't know where I pick up my slang. It must be through loitering at shop windows. Oh, oh, oh!
Pray compose yourself. I'll leave you for a moment.
[_To CHARLOTTE._] How shall I begin, Charley?
Make a bold plunge, do! The odour of cooking here, to a hungry woman, is maddening.
[_VALE softly opens the window and comes into the recess, but remains concealed by the curtain._
[_To himself._] This is too bad of Lukyn! I'm wet to the skin and frightfully hungry! Who the deuce are these women?
[_Impulsively laying her hand upon his arm._] Friend of twenty years! I will be quite candid with you. You are going to dine with us, to-morrow?
Madam, I will repay your candour as it deserves. I am.
My husband knows of your acquaintance with the circumstances of my first marriage. I know what men are. When the women leave the dinner-table, men become retrospective. Now, to-morrow night, over dessert, I beg you not to give my husband dates.
No, I mean years, months, days, dates connected with my marriage with Mr. Farringdon.