Mollen. And remember—be sprightly! Not a trace of acidity! Persiflage is good—in moderation—Bring in Lady Pentruddock's sister—but don't drag her in! You understand?
Contareen. Perfectly, perfectly. Oh yes, I see. Gad, Mollentrave, I've always done what you told me. But those Nancies and Janes, you know—
Mollen. Tut, tut, women like a dash of colour! Now mind—your visit to-day is merely a p. p. c. card—the whistle that heralds the shunting of the train—
Contareen. Quite so. (whistle) I must remember that.
Mollen. (rise, cross to R. C.) Your line is delicacy. You feel it only due to her, and so forth. Your tone must be soft, mellifluous—a south wind rustling over orange trees. Orange trees, mark you—not cypresses!
Contareen. (rise) Exactly. Orange trees—not cypresses. I see.
Mollen. (takes Cont. across L. C.) Take no notice of her confusion. Be bland, respectful. Retire gracefully. (Cont. crosses to L. front of Mollen.) A gentle pressure of the hand. No more.
Cont. (L.) I'll do it. I'll do it! You're wonderful, Mollentrave, but I say—
Mollen. (L. C.) H'sh! (up L. C. to top of table)
(Lady Claude enters R. with book)