[Aghast.] Good evening, ma’am.
John.
[To Quaife.] Tell Mrs. Quaife to delay dinner for—for——
Olive.
[Rising and turning away—in an altered tone.] Oh, five minutes—ten at the outside.
John.
For a quarter of an hour. [Sharply.] The lamps.
[Quaife withdraws, as if in a dream.
Olive.
[Bitterly.] I much regret keeping you and your friends from your dinner. It’s an exceptionably elaborate entertainment to-night, I suppose?