Theophila.
[Nibbling the biscuit, her eyes still closed.] Would it? [He brings the decanter of champagne and a small tumbler. She, speaking faintly, and opening her eyes.] Oh, do let me off this, Jack.
John.
[Pouring out some champagne.] No, no; stick to it—do.
Theophila.
[Watching him.] That looks nice. [She puts the remains of her biscuit on the table and stretches out her hand for the wine. He gives it to her; she drinks.] Oh! oh! oh—h—h—h! [There is a pause; there she shakes herself, looks up at him, and breaks into a low, childlike little laugh.] Ha! ha, ha, ha! I’d nearly gone, hadn’t I? [Emptying her glass.] Oh! oh!... Fetch yourself a glass, and we’ll drink luck to each other. Then I really must be off. The porter said the trains run every—every what was it? [He brings a glass, which she fills, speaking animatedly.] A tumbler! oh, fie! [Filling her own glass.] Oh, mine’s a tumbler too! [Nodding to him.] Ourselves! [Touching his glass with hers.] Our two poor unfortunate selves! [They drink.] Ha! I don’t care! do you?
John.
Care——?
Theophila.
A hang. For anything; for what the judge said; for what people think. Puh. Here’s to our friend, the judge——! [Drinking, nearly emptying her glass.] I hope his wife’s a cat who leads him a——! [Jumping up suddenly, her eyes dilating, holding her glass high in the air.] Happiness and prosperity to Mr. Fraser! [Loudly.] Mr. Fraser!