THE LADY. And you might lose your post. Of course.
AUGUSTUS [amazed and indignant]. I lose my post! What are you dreaming about, madam? How could I possibly be spared? There are hardly Highcastles enough at present to fill half the posts created by this war. No: Blueloo would not go that far. He is at least a gentleman. But I should be chaffed; and, frankly, I don't like being chaffed.
THE LADY. Of course not. Who does? It would never do. Oh never, never.
AUGUSTUS. I'm glad you see it in that light. And now, as a measure of security, I shall put that list in my pocket. [He begins searching vainly from drawer to drawer in the writing-table.] Where on earth—? What the dickens did I—? That's very odd: I—Where the deuce—? I thought I had put it in the—Oh, here it is! No: this is Lucy's last letter.
THE LADY [elegiacally]. Lucy's Last Letter! What a title for a picture play!
AUGUSTUS [delighted]. Yes: it is, isn't it? Lucy appeals to the imagination like no other woman. By the way [handing over the letter], I wonder could you read it for me? Lucy is a darling girl; but I really can't read her writing. In London I get the office typist to decipher it and make me a typed copy; but here there is nobody.
THE LADY [puzzling over it]. It is really almost illegible. I think the beginning is meant for "Dearest Gus."
AUGUSTUS [eagerly]. Yes: that is what she usually calls me. Please go on.
THE LADY [trying to decipher it]. "What a"—"what a"—oh yes: "what a forgetful old"—something—"you are!" I can't make out the word.
AUGUSTUS [greatly interested]. Is it blighter? That is a favorite expression of hers.