(Mollentrave comes in, L. U. E. and goes to top of table C. with a discreet preliminary cough.)
Contareen. (Looks round to L.) Just going, Mollentrave—just going, Lady Claude—au revoir!
Lady C. Good-bye. And my love to Lady Muriel!
Contareen. (up R. C.) Quite so, quite so. Good-bye, Mollentrave. I'm afraid I've made an awful hash—
Mollen. (up R. C. on his L.) Good-bye, my dear fellow—good-bye. (in his ear) She's piqued—she's piqued! Spade-work—nothing like it! (aloud) Good-bye!
(Contareen goes R. Mollentrave returns to the centre of the room, rubbing his hands.)
Lady C. (very earnestly) Papa, don't practise on me!
Mollen. (blandly) My child?
Lady C. There are so many specimens for you to play with! Look on me as an exception—a freak, if you like. But I, at least, am not a rule of three sum!
Mollen. (sitting on stool C. patting her hand) My dear Rosamund!