Miss Moon.
It never gives me any pleasure to hear of people having their limbs crushed.
Miss Huddle.
Or being murdered by tramps.
Miss Moon.
Won't your lordship take a chair? [To Frayne, who has wandered down to the window.] And you, sir?
[The young gentleman, his manicuring being finished, has risen, paid Miss Limbird and departed, followed by Miss Claridge carrying her bowl and towel. The door-gong sounds.
Quex.
Is that she?
Miss Moon.