Here’s Sir Julian, my lady.
Brooke Twombley.
Hullo, Mater!
[Lady Twombley, a handsome, bright, good-humoured woman, dressed magnificently in Court dress, enters. Probyn retires, and Sir Julian stops playing.]
Lady Twombley.
[Kissing Brooke.] Well, Brooke, darling, have you wanted your mother? [Kissing Lady Euphemia.] Effie, how sweet you look! what a dream of a bonnet! [Nods to Mrs. Gaylustre.] How d’ye do, Mrs. Gaylustre? Why, pa! [She bends over him and kisses him.] You’re worried—you’ve been playing your whistle.
Sir Julian Twombley.
Flute, Katherine.
Lady Twombley.
I mean flute. It was my brother Bob who always played a whistle when the crops were poor or the lambs fell sickly.