[Priscilla disappears down the steps.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
Irene, this will save us the expense of tea at Fiesole. [To Weaver.] Oh, you will find a young lady outside—my companion; be good enough to tell her to walk on to Fiesole—we will follow in the carriage.
Irene.
Oh, no, mamma—not walk! The girl looks painfully delicate.
Mrs. Stonehay.
My dear, I will not overload poor dumb animals.
Weaver.
Excuse me, ma’am, but it’s a terrible up-hill walk to Fiesole, and the sun is very hot at this time of the afternoon.