It's no good your being sweet on her any longer, surely?
Tom.
[Glaring at her.] What cats you all are, you girls!
Imogen.
[Holding up her hands.] Oh! oh, dear! How vulgar—after the Olympic!
[Ablett returns, carrying three more chairs.]
Ablett.
[Arranging these chairs on the left of the table.] They're all 'ome! they're all 'ome! [Tom places the four chairs belonging to the room at the table. To Imogen.] She looks 'eavenly, Miss Trelawny does. I was jest takin' in the ale when she floated down the Crescent on her lover's arm. [ Wagging his head at Imogen admiringly.] There, I don't know which of you two is the——
Imogen.
[Haughtily.] Man, keep your place!