MRS. SHORT. (getting uneasy) If you talk so much you’ll spoil your luncheon.
SHORT. Well, I don’t know how it is but my appetite’s beginning to fail.
MRS. SHORT. (bustling about the table to draw off his attention) Have a glass of sherry—here, let me pour some out for you. (pours out wine for him, and goes round to the R. of SHORT)
SHORT. Well, I have rather a weakness for a glass of sherry. (having drank it) Another. (she pours out another—aside) If Sweet could but see me now! (aloud) What a nice little parlour maid you would make, Loo—why you are prettier than ever! (chucks her under the chin, and takes her by the hand to draw her towards him)
MRS. SHORT. (with disinclination to meet his advance) Oh, how cold your hand is, (breaking away from him, and running towards the bell, L.) let me ring and tell them to light a fire for you.
SHORT. No, no, never mind. Come here, I want to talk to you. Pour me out another glass of wine.
MRS. SHORT. (observing him) My dear! A third glass before dinner.
SHORT. Why not? It warms me and does me good—come, give me a buss. (drawing her towards him)
MRS. SHORT. (breaking away from him) Oh! oh!