[Falteringly.] Here is a homely little dish which has fascinations for many, though I never touch it myself—I never touch it myself. [Rankling, Mallory and Saunders exchange significant looks.] Ah'm! A pudding made of larks. [He glances round, all look down, there is deep silence.] A pudding—made—of larks. [To Dinah.] My dear—a very little?
DINAH.
No, thank you, Uncle.
QUECKETT.
Perhaps you're right. Gwendoline, a suggestion?
GWENDOLINE.
No, thank you, Uncle.
QUECKETT.
[To Peggy.] Margaret, I know what your digestion is—I won't tempt you. [To Ermyntrude.] Ermyntrude—the least in the world?