[Brooke and Lady Euphemia hurry out.]
Miss Munkittrick.
I want my papa! [Seeing Munkittrick.] Ah!
The Munkittrick.
[Giving her his arm.] Flora, we’ll go home.
Miss Munkittrick.
Papa, I’m not nearly all.
[Her aigrette is very much on one side, her sash is trailing, and she limps away carrying one slipper.]
Egidia.
Pray don’t think of going!