Leslie.
Yes—yes. There’s a button off my glove.
[Priscilla hastily produces needle and thread and commences stitching the glove.]
Wilfrid Brudenell.
The poor little thing seemed quite lost in the crowd and bustle and at last, pushed about by the porters and passengers, she sat herself down to cry. We asked if we could help her. Do you remember how pretty she looked then, Les?
Leslie.
I can’t remember anything till I have been married a little while. Do be quick, Priscilla.
Wilfrid Brudenell.
Well, what do you think the poor little lady wanted? She wanted to find the cleverest man in London, some one to advise her on an awfully important matter. Leslie said I was clever, didn’t you, Les?
Leslie.