Pilliner (who has just entered with some of the younger men, to Miss Spelwane). What are you doing with these chairs? Why are we all to sit in a circle, like Moore and Burgess people? You're not going to set the poor dear Bishop down to play baby-games? How perfectly barbarous of you!
Miss Spelwane. The chairs are being arranged for something much more intellectual. We are going to get Mr. Spurrell to read a poem to us, if you want to know. I told you I should manage it.
Pilliner. There's only one drawback to that highly desirable arrangement. The songster has unostentatiously retired to roost. So I'm afraid you'll have to do without your poetry this evening—that is, unless you care to avail yourself again of my services?
Miss Spelwane (indignantly). It is too mean of you. You must have told him!
[He protests his innocence.
Lady Rhoda. Archie, what's become of Mr. Spurrell? I particularly want to ask him something.
Bearpark. The poet? He nipped upstairs—as I told you all along he meant to—to scribble some of his democratic drivel, and (with a suppressed grin) I don't think you'll see him again this evening.
Captain Thicknesse (to himself, as he enters). She's keepin' a chair next hers in the corner there for somebody. Can it be for that poet chap?... (He meets Lady Maisie's eye suddenly.) Great Scott! If she means it for me!... I've half a mind not to—— No, I shall be a fool if I lose such a chance! (He crosses, and drops into the vacant chair next hers.) I may sit here, mayn't I?
Lady Maisie (simply). I meant you to. We used to be such good friends; it's a pity to have misunderstandings. And—and I want to ask you what that silly little Mrs. Chatteris has been telling you at dinner about me.
Captain Thicknesse. Well, she was sayin'—and I must say I don't understand it, after your tellin' me you knew nothing about this Mr. Spurrell till this afternoon——