Withdrawing her hand again, sharply. She calls herself Hupjohn, you mean!
Farncombe.
Distressed. No, no, no. In a difficulty. Er—at any rate, h’s don’t lead you to heaven, do they?
Lily.
Gloomily. You’re right; mother’s lead her to ’eaven. Rising and walking away. Well, you’d better go now.
Farncombe.
Rising. And to-night——?
Lily.
No; I’ll come home alone.
Farncombe.