Farncombe.
It is to-morrow now. It’s day.
Jimmie.
Dropping her eyes. She’s tired.
Farncombe.
Five minutes—no longer. Entreatingly. Won’t you try to arrange it for me?
Jimmie.
Pursing her lips. H’m! I’d stay; delighted. Demurely. It doesn’t matter how tired I feel.
Farncombe.
Contritely. I’m a brute!