George (more moved by this than he cares to show). Thank you, Henry.
(Hoarsely.) You're a good fellow.
Henry (airily, with a typically British desire to conceal his emotion). Who is the lucky little lady?
George (taking out a picture postcard of the British Museum and kissing it passionately). Isobel Barley!
[If Henry is not careful he will probably give a start of surprise here, with the idea of suggesting to the audience that he (1) knows something about the lady's past, or (2) is in love with her himself. He is, however, thinking of a different play. We shall come to that one in a moment.
Henry (in a slightly dashing manner). Little Isobel? Lucky dog!
George. I wish I could think so. (Sighs.) But I have yet to approach her, and she may be another's. (Fiercely.) Heavens, Henry, if she should be another's!
Enter Isobel.
Isobel (brightly). So I've run you to earth at last. Now, what have you got to say for yourselves?
Henry (like a man). By Jove! (looking at his watch)—I had no idea—is it really—poor old Joe—waiting—
[Dashes out tactfully in a state of incoherence.