Old? Let me see—my marvellous head for figures should serve me——
Mrs. Cloys.
Very old.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Born in——
Mrs. Cloys.
We’re all getting old; that’s why you have the pleasure of seeing me amongst you once more. [Turning to Claude, who bows stiffly.] My nephew? [Shaking hands with him and looking him in the face searchingly.] You’re rather old too. [Sharply.] Who’s that there?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Who has been hidden by the flowers on the piano-forte, advancing, with a nervous outburst.] Oh, I hope you remember me, dear Mrs. Cloys—Kitty Twelves. I was Kitty Powis, if you recollect.
Mrs. Cloys.