Celia. Oh, nothing. I only want to thank him, you know, about old Admiral Grice, and tell him that he need no longer complicate his anxiety about his election with worries about me or the color of my stockings.
Phyllis. (Startled) Why, Celia--what do you mean?
Celia. Well, you see--(Laughs)--I am not quite accustomed to announcing--my engagement.
Phyllis. (With undisguised amazement. Haltingly) Your engagement? Why--it's impossible.
Celia. Yes, that's what Mr. Tarver says. Well, now suppose we call him down here, Phyllis, and tell him he is mistaken.
Phyllis. Oh-Ce-lia! (Embraces Celia gushingly. Rushes up to Tarver and calling) Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby! (Tarver drops his magazine, Phyllis drags him down R. of Celia. He is right of Phyllis.) What do you think? Celia's engaged to be married.
Tarver. (Looks at her, greatly astonished, dropping his eyeglass) Never!
Celia. (Sarcastically) Thanks so much, Mr. Tarver, for your kind congratulations.
Phyllis. (Who has run up to card room, calling) Aunt Ida, Aunt Ida!
(Tarver pauses a moment and then goes R., looking over at Celia incredulously as he goes. He finally sits on fender.)