Phillipson (to herself). Then it was my Jem after all! (Aloud, distantly.) I'm here in attendance on Lady Maisie Mull, being her maid. If I was at all curious—which I'm not—I might ask you what you're doing in such a house as this; and in evening dress, if you please!
Spurrell. I'm in evening dress, Emma, such as it is (not that I've any right to find fault with it); but I'm in evening dress (with dignity) because I've been included in the dinner party here.
Phillipson. You must have been getting on since I knew you. Then you were studying to be a horse-doctor.
Spurrell. I have got on. I am now a qualified M.R.C.V.S.
Phillipson. And does that qualify you to dine with bishops and countesses and baronets and the gentry, like one of themselves?
Spurrell. I don't say it does, in itself. It was my Andromeda that did the trick, Emma.
Phillipson. Andromeda? They were talking of that downstairs. What made you take to scribbling, James?
Spurrell. Scribbling? how do you mean? My handwriting's easy enough to read, as you ought to know very well.
Phillipson. You can't expect me to remember what your writing's like; it's so long since I've seen it!
Spurrell. Come, I like that! When I wrote twice to say I was sorry we'd fallen out; and never got a word back!