Miss Tracer.
Gospel. [Taking up the press-cuttings and looking through them.] Many are the sympathetic souls who are grief-stricken in these days for the same reason. Here we are! [Reading from a cutting.] Late Viscount Petersfield ... memorial service ... St. Margaret's, Westminster ... among those present ... h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle Filson ... wreaths were sent by ... h'm, h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle and Lady Filson! [Replacing the press-cuttings upon the table.] Ha, ha, ha, ha—! [Checking herself and turning to Westrip.] Our conversation is strictly private, Mr. Westrip?
Westrip.
[Somewhat disturbed.] Strictly.
Miss Tracer.
[Smiling at him winningly and moving to the settee before the fireplace.] You're a nice boy; I'm sure you wouldn't make mischief. [Sinking on to the settee with a yawn.] Oh! Oh, I'm so weary!
Westrip.
Weary? Before you've begun your morning's work!
Miss Tracer.
Before I've begun it! I had a parade downstairs in the servants' hall at a quarter-to-ten.