Mr. Posket.
Yes, but Lady Jenkins is ill.
Cis.
Oh! Is ma mentioned in the will?
Mr. Posket.
Good gracious, what a boy! No, Cis, your mother is merely going to sit by Lady Jenkins’ bedside, to hold her hand, and to tell her where one goes to—to buy pocket-handkerchiefs.
Cis.
By Jove! The mater can’t be home again till half-past twelve or one o’clock.
Mr. Posket.
Much later if Lady Jenkins’ condition is alarming.