Mollen. My poor Rosamund is a widow. (up L. C. across C. and down R. C.) Also she has had the advantage of correcting my proof-sheets. She has read that passion wins maids, and perseverance widows. She follows the rule. Do the same!
Contareen. I thought—
Mollen. Every siege must be conducted on scientific principles. You should now be back in your trenches. Digging, sir—digging!
Contareen. (eagerly) Look here, Lady Pentruddock has asked me down to her place in Shropshire.
Mollen. Well?
Contareen. Her sister will be there—Muriel, I mean, not Gladys. Muriel has charm.
Mollen. Granted. And then?
Contareen. Your daughter knows Lady Muriel. When she learns that I shall be under the same roof with that fascinating person—eh?
Mollen. (to L. of table C.) I see, I see. Well—(he ponders)
Contareen. If I tell Lady Claude that I—er—accept her decision cheerfully—eh?—and inform her that I—Lady Muriel—don't you think?