BRASSBOUND (startled). Myself!—in that!
LADY CECILY (returning to the tailoring question as if her last remark were of no consequence whatever). Did this sleeve catch you at all under the arm? Perhaps I had better make it a little easier for you.
BRASSBOUND (irritably). Let my coat alone. It will do very well as it is. Put it down.
LADY CICILY. Oh, don't ask me to sit doing nothing. It bores me so.
BRASSBOUND. In Heaven's name then, do what you like! Only don't worry me with it.
LADY CICELY. I'm so sorry. All the Hallams are irritable.
BRASSBOUND (penning up his fury with difficulty). As I have already said, that remark has no application to me.
LADY CICELY (resuming her stitching). That's so funny! They all hate to be told that they are like one another.
BRASSBOUND (with the beginnings of despair in his voice). Why did you come here? My trap was laid for him, not for you. Do you know the danger you are in?
LADY CICELY. There's always a danger of something or other. Do you think it's worth bothering about?