Beatie.
You simple, foolish, Cis! If your head is so queer, shall I tell you what to say?
Popham enters, carrying a tray with breakfast dishes.
Popham.
[To herself.] He won’t think so much of her now. His breakfast is my triumph. [To Cis.] Coffee, bacon, and a teacake.
Beatie.
Hush! Master Farringdon is writing something very important.
Popham.
[Going to the window.] That’s a cab at our door.