[Breathlessly.] And—and she——?
Sir Randle.
I trust—I trust that my child's monstrous infatuation will have cooled down by the autumn.
Lady Filson.
[Supporting herself by the chair at the writing-table, her hand to her heart—exhausted.] Oh! Oh, dear!
Sir Randle.
[Returning to her.] I conducted the affair with skill and tact, Winifred?
Lady Filson.
[Rallying.] It was masterly—[kissing him] masterly——
Sir Randle.