Sir Randle.
[Coming to earth.] Eh?
Bertram.
[Agitatedly.] My sister will pack her trunks and be off to an hotel if you're not careful. She won't stand this, I mean t'say. There'll be a marriage at the registrar's, or some ghastly proceeding—a scandal—all kinds of gossip——!
Lady Filson.
[Throwing down her pen and rising—holding her heart.] Oh——!
Bertram.
[With energy.] I mean to say——!
Sir Randle.
[To Lady Filson, blankly.] Winnie——?