Phillipson. If you'd written to the addresses I gave you abroad——
Spurrell. Then you did write; but none of the letters reached me. I never even knew you'd gone abroad. I wrote to the old place. And so did you, I suppose, not knowing I'd moved my lodgings too, so naturally—— But what does it all matter, so long as we've met and it's all right between us? Oh, my dear girl, if you only knew how I worried myself, thinking you were—— Well, all that's over now, isn't it?
[He attempts to embrace her.
Phillipson (repulsing him). Not quite so fast, James. Before I say whether we're to be as we were or not, I want to know a little more about you. You wouldn't be here like this if you hadn't done something to distinguish yourself.
Spurrell. Well, I don't say I mayn't have got a certain amount of what they call "kudosh," owing to Andromeda. But what difference does that make?
Phillipson. Tell me, James, is it you that's been writing a pink book all over silver cutlets?
Spurrell. Me? Write a book—about cutlets—or anything else! Emma, you don't suppose I've quite come down to that! Andromeda's the name of my bull-dog. I took first prize with her; there were portraits of both of us in one of the papers. And the people here were very much taken with the dog, and—and so they asked me to dine with them. That's how it was.
Phillipson. I should have thought, if they asked one of you to dine, it ought to have been the bull-dog.
Spurrell. Now what's the good of saying extravagant things of that sort? Not that old Drummy couldn't be trusted to behave anywhere!
Phillipson. Better than her master, I dare say. I heard of your goings on with some Lady Rhoda or other!