You always do ’ave a w’iff after your breakfast. Come!
Lily.
No.
Mrs. Upjohn.
Rising and walking away. Oh, dear; oh, dear! Deuce take Carlton Smythe an’ ’is supper party—those are my sentiments; an’ Lal Roper, busybody that ’e is! Things were goin’ on with us as smooth an’ peaceful as could be, before this upset.
Lily.
Raising herself, angrily. You were in it, mother; you’re as much to blame as anybody.
Mrs. Upjohn.
Halting. ’Ow in it?
Lily.