[He ponders.
Lady Lullington (to herself). I thought this young man was going to read us some more of his poetry; it's too tiresome of him to stop to tell us about his bull-dog. As if anybody cared what he called it!
Lord Lullington (to himself). Uncommonly awkward, this! If I could catch Laura's eye—but I suppose it would hardly be decent to go just yet.
Lady Culverin (to herself). Can Rohesia have known this? What possible object could she have had in—— And oh, dear, how disgusted Rupert will be!
Sir Rupert (to himself). Seems a decent young chap enough! Too bad of Rohesia to let him in for this. I don't care a straw what he is—he's none the worse for not being a poet.
Lady Cantire (to herself). What is he maundering about? It's utterly inconceivable that I should have made any mistake. It's only too clear what the cause is—Claret!
Spurrell (aloud, good-humouredly). Too bad of you to try and spoof me like this before everybody, Miss Spelwane! I don't know whose idea it was to play me such a trick, but——
Miss Spelwane (indistinctly). Please understand that nobody here had the least intention of playing a trick upon you!
Spurrell. Well, if you say so, of course—— But it looked rather like it, asking me to read when I've about as much poetry in me as—as a pot hat! Still, if I'm wanted to read aloud, I shall be happy to——
Lady Culverin (hastily). Indeed, indeed, Mr. Spurrell, we couldn't think of troubling you any more under the circumstances! (In desperation.) Vivien, my dear, won't you sing something?