Looe. (Shaken.) Well, I shall see what Lady Leonard says.
Carve. (Rising in an angry, scornful outburst.) You'd bury him in Westminster Abbey because he's a philanthropist, not because he's an artist. That's England all over.... Well, I'm hanged if I'll have it.
Looe. But, my dear sir——
Carve. And I tell you another thing—he's not dead.
Peter. Not dead—what next?
Carve. I am Ilam Carve.
Honoria. (Soothingly.) Poor dear! He's not himself.
Carve. That's just what I am. (Sinks back exhausted.)
Peter. (Aside to Looe.) Is he mad, Father? Nothing but a clerk after all. And yet he takes a private room at the Grand Babylon, and then he refuses a hundred and fifty of the best and goes on like this. And now, blessed if he isn't Ilam Carve! (Laughs.)
Looe. I really think we ought to leave.