John.
Sssh! oh, hush!
Theophila.
Fraser of Locheen! [She goes to the fireplace and flings the contents of her glass into the grate.] Ha! well, that’s throwing good stuff after poor, isn’t it? [She places her glass on the table; the cigarette box is open; she takes a cigarette.] The old sort?
John.
[Quickly.] No, no——
Theophila.
[Striking a match.] Only a whiff. [Lighting her cigarette.] Sure I’m not in the way, Jack, if I rest here a minute or two longer?
John.
[With a glance at the library.] C—certainly not.