PHILIP. Probably. We'll order some. Dolly takes it. (Turning to Crampton with cheerful politeness.) And now, Mr. Crampton, what can we do for you?
CRAMPTON. What d'ye mean, boy?
PHILIP. Boy! (Very solemnly.) Whose fault is it that I am a boy?
(Crampton snatches the wine list rudely from him and irresolutely pretends to read it. Philip abandons it to him with perfect politeness.)
DOLLY (looking over Crampton's right shoulder). The whisky's on the last page but one.
CRAMPTON. Let me alone, child.
DOLLY. Child! No, no: you may call me Dolly if you like; but you mustn't call me child. (She slips her arm through Philip's; and the two stand looking at Crampton as if he were some eccentric stranger.)
CRAMPTON (mopping his brow in rage and agony, and yet relieved even by their playing with him). McComas: we are—ha!—going to have a pleasant meal.
McCOMAS (pusillanimously). There is no reason why it should not be pleasant. (He looks abjectly gloomy.)
PHILIP. Finch's face is a feast in itself. (Mrs. Clandon and Gloria come from the hotel. Mrs. Clandon advances with courageous self-possession and marked dignity of manner. She stops at the foot of the steps to address Valentine, who is in her path. Gloria also stops, looking at Crampton with a certain repulsion.)