Why, God bless my soul, do you realise that's drains?
Miss L. I'm dreadfully afraid it is! (Holds out her hand for the small book Greatorex is carrying.)
(Greatorex returns Miss Levering's book open; he has been keeping the place with his finger. She opens it and shuts her handkerchief in.)
Great. And we in the act of discussing Italian literature! Perhaps you'll tell me that isn't a more savoury topic for a lady.
Miss L. But for the tramp population less conducive to savouriness, don't you think, than—baths?
Great. No, I can't understand this morbid interest in vagrants. You're much too—leave it to the others.
Jean. What others?
Great. (with smiling impertinence). Oh, the sort of woman who smells of indiarubber. The typical English spinster. (To Miss Levering.) You know—Italy's full of her. She never goes anywhere without a mackintosh and a collapsible bath—rubber. When you look at her, it's borne in upon you that she doesn't only smell of rubber. She's rubber too.
Lord J. (laughing). This is my niece, Miss Jean Dunbarton, Miss Levering.
Jean. How do you do? (They shake hands.)