[Calling out.] Eh?
[The door opens and Leonard Westrip appears. He carries a pile of press-cuttings.
Westrip.
[A fresh-coloured, boyish young man.] I beg your pardon——[seeing that Miss Tracer is alone] oh, good morning.
Miss Tracer.
Good morning.
Westrip.
[Entering and closing the door.] Lady Filson isn't down yet?
Miss Tracer.
No. [Tossing the picture-paper onto the round table.] She didn't get to bed till pretty late last night, I suspect.