Not four in the morning, as Mrs. Allingham’s blundering counsel tried to establish. Ha, ha! Sir John Clarkson bowled him over there! Three, sir—not four!
Mrs. Cloys.
[To Sir Fletcher.] Be quiet! be silent!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Upon my word, Harriet——!
Mrs. Cloys.
[To Justina, who rises.] Go away! You can sit by and assist at the telling of a story of this nature, single woman that you are! [Justina walks away.] What did I prophesy? Years ago, what did I prophesy? [To Mrs. Emptage.] Now, pray, how do you like seeing your children dabbling their hands in this—this pig-pail?
[Claude enters.
Claude.
Fraser and Theo——