Celia. Oh! Is that all?
Smith. No, more. Now that I have come in to my Uncle Vavasour's old Abbey, I have to take his name legally, Smith-Vavasour, don't you see?
Celia. I see. What a delightful combination of class and mass! This may be all very interesting to anyone interested, but really I haven't time now to split hairs over a middle name. Your intention was to deceive me, and you almost succeeded. Failure alone, I take it, accounts for your present humility. Now, if you will be good enough to get your watch on the desk, you will see that the five minutes you asked for are up and, since you insist on saying good-bye to me, will you say it as quickly as possible, please, and let me go? (Makes no attempt to move.)
Smith. No. Not until we've decided what's to be done about your other letters. (Hand unconsciously rests on the box of letters without his knowing it.)
Celia. (Glances at this and tries to appear unconcerned) What other letters?
Smith. I have that first one here. (Pressing his hand over his heart.) But--all the others. Good God! (Moving well down R.) When I think of love letters of yours wandering loose about Somaliland---- (Celia places her bag quickly on table, steals her arm across, seizes the box of letters while Smith is not looking, and on the word Somaliland, swings away from him, hiding the box awkwardly under her cloak.) There's one thing I can do to show you what I feel about it. Give me some clue to the mistaken addresses you must have put upon them and I'll start back to-morrow and fetch them. (Comes L.C., quite close to Celia.)
Celia. From Somaliland?
Smith. From Hell, if necessary.
Celia. Fortunately, such a journey would be superfluous.
Smith. What do you mean?