[Agitatedly.] I can’t hear you. [Taking the letter from Justina.] Let me see it.
Justina.
What shall we do? We must do something. Uncle!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Confused.] We must certainly do something, at once. Er—it is her wedding-ring, I suppose?
Justina.
[Impatiently.] Oh——! Aunt!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Encountering Claude.] Don’t stand there, Claude, looking precisely like an owl!
Mrs. Cloys.