[He sees Peggy, and stands perplexed, twisting his little moustache.]
PEGGY.
[Writing solemnly.] "Miss Dyott, passenger to Hereford."
QUECKETT.
[Coughing anxiously.] H'm! I fancy I left an eighty-ton gun—I mean, I think I've mislaid a—er——-[Without looking up, Peggy re-adjusts the telegraph form against the cabinet.] Oh! H'm! That's it. [He makes one or two fidgety attempts to take it, when Peggy rises with it in her hand. She reads it silently, forming the words with her lips.] Oh, you vexing girl! What do you think of doing about it? [She commences to fold the form very neatly.] You know I sha'n't send it. I never meant to send it. I say, I shall not send it. [Nervously holding out his hand.] Shall I? [Peggy doubles up the form into another fold without speaking.] You are a vexing girl.
MISS DYOTT.
[Calling outside.] Miss Hesslerigge! [Peggy quietly slips the telegraph form into her pocket.]
QUECKETT.
Oh! You won't tell my wife? You will not dare to tell my wife! [Mildly.] Will you?