[To himself—glaring at Darbey.] I feel I should like to garrote him with his bass string.
Georgiana.
[Frowning at her betting book.] I think I shall hedge a bit over the Crumbleigh Stakes.
Darbey.
[As he plays, glancing at Tarver.] I wonder how old Tarver’s Chest C likes a holiday.
Sheba.
[As she plays.] We must get Pa to bed early. Dear Papa’s always so dreadfully in the way.
Georgiana.
[Looking around.] No—there’s nothing like it in any other country. A regular, pure, simple, English Evening at Home!
Blore enters quickly, cutting “The Times” with a paper-knife as he enters.