Stroking her hand. Ah! Ah!
Lily.
And then—poor mother! You—you won’t be very proud of poor mother.
Farncombe.
Your mother? Boyishly. Oh, she—she’s an awfully good sort.
Lily.
She hasn’t an H. to her name.
Farncombe.
Inadvertently. She oughtn’t to have.
Lily.