In Uncle Lal’s artful plan to prevent Nicko from being invited. You’ve confessed you were.
Mrs. Upjohn.
Lal twisted me round ’is little finger. I was clay in the porter’s ’and, as your dad was fond of sayin’.
Lily.
Changing her position. If only Nicko had been there, I shouldn’t have given young Farncombe all those dances, nor wandered about with him in the intervals, nor allowed him to see me home. It all simply wouldn’t, couldn’t have happened. Hitting a cushion. Oh! Sitting up and embracing her knees. Mother——!
Mrs. Upjohn.
Behind the settee. Wot?
Lily.
Knitting her brows. I—I’m so surprised at myself.
Mrs. Upjohn.