MRS. CULVER. How remarkable! Then that explains how it is you're so deliciously unspoilt.
STRAIGHT. Do you mean my face?
MRS. CULVER. I meant you don't seem at all to realise that you're a very great celebrity in London; very great indeed. A lion of the first order.
STRAIGHT ( simply ). Lion?
CULVER. You're expected to roar, Mr. Straight.
STRAIGHT. Roar?
MRS. CULVER. It may interest you to know that my little daughter also writes articles in The Echo . Yes, about war cookery. But of course you wouldn't notice them. (Hildegarde moves away .) I'm afraid ( apologetically ) your mere presence is making her just a wee bit nervous.
HILDEGARDE ( from a distance, striving to control herself ). Oh, Mr. Sampson Straight. There's one question I've been longing to ask you. I always ask it of literary lions—and tigers.
STRAIGHT. Tigers?
HILDEGARDE. Do you write best in the morning or do you burn the midnight oil?