All right, dear.
Paula.
[Trifling with the letter.] I—I'd better tell you what I've written. I meant to do so, of course. I—I've asked the Orreyeds to come and stay with us. [He looks at her and lets the paper fall to the ground in a helpless way.] George was a great friend of Cayley's; I'm sure he would be delighted to meet them here.
Aubrey.
[Laughing mirthlessly.] Ha, ha, ha! They say Orreyed has taken to tippling at dinner. Heavens above!
Paula.
Oh! I've no patience with you! You'll kill me with this life! [She selects some flowers from a vase on the table, cuts and arranges them, and fastens them in her bodice.] What is my existence, Sunday to Saturday? In the morning, a drive down to the village, with the groom, to give my orders to the tradespeople. At lunch, you and Ellean. In the afternoon, a novel, the newspapers; if fine, another drive—if fine! Tea—you and Ellean. Then two hours of dusk; then dinner—you and Ellean. Then a game of Bésique, you and I, while Ellean reads a religious book in a dull corner. Then a yawn from me, another from you, a sigh from Ellean; three figures suddenly rise—"Good-night, good-night, good-night!" [Imitating a kiss.] "God bless you!" Ah!
Aubrey.
Yes, yes, Paula—yes, dearest—that's what it is now. But, by-and-by, if people begin to come round us——
Paula.