(They heave, and the settee yields, disclosing Lancelot with his previously smooth hair disheveled and his clothes well rumpled.)
MRS. BRIGGS (astonished)
Lancelot! Oh, gracious me!
INGOLDSBY (to Lancelot)
Shame on you!
RUPERT
Yes, shame on you!
LANCELOT (resentfully)
Well, you would get me; but I’ll make you sorry you did it, both of you! (He rises, brushing himself and adjusting his attire.)
INGOLDSBY (irritably)