Cheering up. Oh, well, p’r’aps young Morgan knows ’is own business best. Let’s ’ope so, at any rate.
Roper.
By the tea-table, beckoning to Farncombe. Farncombe——
Farncombe.
To Roper. Eh? To Mrs. Upjohn, rising. Excuse me.
Farncombe joins Roper, whereupon Mrs. Upjohn goes to the writing-table and, seating herself there, examines the jewellery delightedly.
Roper.
To Farncombe, in a whisper. Do me a favour.
Farncombe.
Certainly.