Imogen.
“Dear Mr. White.” I shall never call him Valentine again, except in my thoughts. [Reading.] “Dear Mr. White, I am sorry to hear that you are discontented with your recent appointment to the Deputy-Assistant-Head-Gamekeepership on the Drumdurris estate, and that you consider it a sinecure fit only for a debilitated peer.” Now for it. [Resuming.] “Permit me to take this opportunity of informing you that I have at length consented to an engagement between myself and Sir Colin Macphail of Ballocheevin.” Oh, how awful it looks in ink! [Resuming.] “As it is becoming that I should support such a position with dignity I would prefer not encountering your dislike to ‘stuck-up people’ by ever seeing you again.” Oh, Val. “I therefore suggest that you obtain a nastier appointment than that of Deputy-Assistant-Head-Gamekeeper at Drumdurris without delay.” That will do—beautifully. [In tears.] Oh, Val, why have you never spoken? I know you are poor, but I would have gone away with you and lived cheerfully and economically in that rock if you had but asked me. Why, why have you never asked me?
[She sits on a footstool looking into the fire. Brooke, in shooting dress, strolls in with Lady Euphemia. They do not see Imogen.]
Brooke Twombley.
[Coolly.] Well, then, Effie, I suppose I may regard our engagement as a fixture—what? I needn’t say you’ll find me an excellent husband.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Thanks, awfully. But perhaps you had better mention the subject to me again at some other time.
Brooke Twombley.
Well, I shall be rather busy for the next week or two.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.