Ah! ha!
Justina.
What price Mrs. Allingham?
Mrs. Emptage returns. She has relieved the heaviness of her dress by a fichu of crêpe de soie.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Embracing Claude.] My darling! [Embracing Sir Fletcher.] Oh, my dear Fletcher! Be quiet, ’Tina!
[Justina plays the air of a popular music-hall melody, softly; Mrs. Twelves comes to her.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I told you so—hey!
Mrs. Emptage.