Fraser.
[Shortly.] No.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Really a capital lunch. Evidently it is intended that one should wander in and eat a wing of a chicken when one feels inclined.
Justina.
You have been wandering, uncle, apparently.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
A glass of sherry, merely. No—it is strange and unreasonable that it should be so, but it is so.
Justina.
What is so?