Sir Randle.
[Taking a book from the rack on the oblong table and hurriedly turning its pages.] A supercilious, patronizing person—son of a wretched country parson—used to loll against the wall of your salon—with his nose in the air.
Lady Filson.
[Tearfully.] A stroke of bad fortune at last, Randle! Fancy! Everything has always gone so well with us——!
Sir Randle.
[Suddenly, groaning.] Oh!
Lady Filson.
[Over her shoulder.] What is it? I can't bear much more——
Sir Randle.
He isn't even in Who's Who, Winnie!