LEONARD (turning back). Yes, but who the devil’s Mr. Latimer?
ANNE (with interest). Leonard, do you always arrange something fascinating like this when you elope? I think it’s so romantic of you. But don’t you think that the mere running away is enough just at first? Leaving the fogs and the frets of England, the weariness and the coldness of it, and escaping together to the warm, blue, sun-filled South—isn’t that romantic enough? Why drag in a mysterious and impossible inn, a mysterious and impossible Mr. Latimer? You should have kept them for afterwards; for the time when the poetry was wearing out, and we were beginning to get used to each other.
LEONARD. My dear girl, what are you driving at? I say again—do you really think that I arranged all this?
ANNE. Well, somebody did.
(The two Footmen and the two Chambermaids come in and take up positions on each side of the table. They are followed by DOMINIC.)
DOMINIC. Mr. Latimer!
(MR. LATIMER comes in, looks at the visitors, goes off absent-mindedly with DOMINIC and his Staff, and then comes apologetically back again.)
LATIMER. Good evening!
(He bows with an air; an airy gentleman, neither young nor old, dressed rather fantastically as regards his tie and his dinner-jacket and the flower in his button-hole, and enjoying impishly every word of it.)
LEONARD. Good evening. Er——