Oh, don’t be so curious, Jimmie. Poor Nicko has been after me for six years. A girl must play the game, if she’s at all decent and wishes to preserve a shred of self-respect.
Again there is a pause and then Jimmie silently resumes her seat in the arm-chair.
Mrs. Upjohn.
Moistening her lips with her tongue—to Jimmie. ’Ow do you feel about it?
Jimmie.
Thoughtfully. How do I feel about it? To Lily. May I say?
Lily.
Coldly. Certainly.
Jimmie.
Rubbing the arm of her chair with the palm of her hand. Well, if I were on board a ship at this moment, I should be ringing for the stewardess; that’s how I feel about it.