SIR GEOFFREY. Sir Geoffrey Transom ceased to be when he said good-night to Lady Torminster. Sir Geoffrey is upstairs asleep. So is her ladyship. We are their souls. Let us talk.
LADY TORMINSTER. You are in your whimsical mood.
SIR GEOFFREY. And you in your wrapper—peignoir—tea gown—it don't matter what you call it. You look—jolly. Ridiculous word—I don't mean that at all. You look—you. More you than I've seen you for years. Sh—don't interrupt. Shades never do that. By the way, do you know that the old lumber-room, my owner—my corporeal sheath—means to go away in the morning, before you are up?
LADY TORMINSTER. Sir Geoffrey! What nonsense! You've promised to stay a month!
SIR GEOFFREY. I assure you I have been charged to invent fitting and appropriate lies to account for the ridiculous creature's abrupt departure. The man Transom is a poor liar.
LADY TORMINSTER. You are making me giddy. Would you mind putting on your body? I've not been introduced to your soul.
SIR GEOFFREY. [Springing up with a flourish.] How very remiss of me! Permit me. Gertrude this is Geoffrey. You have often heard me speak of him.
LADY TORMINSTER. [Rising.] I think I'll go to bed.
SIR GEOFFREY. Now that is preposterous. Jack, my dear old friend—the best and only friend I have in the world—is slumbering peacefully upstairs, and Jack's wife is reluctant to talk to Jack's old pal because the sun happens to be hidden on the other side of the globe. Lady Torminster, sit down. If you're good you shall have a cigarette.
LADY TORMINSTER. [Sitting.] Well, just one. And when I've finished it,
I'll go.