Sir Rupert. He's clear it isn't navicular, which Adams was afraid of, and he thinks, with care and rest, you know, the horse will be as fit as a fiddle in a very few days.
Undershell (to himself). Just exactly what I told them; but the fools wouldn't believe me!
Lady Culverin. Oh, Rupert, I am so glad. How clever of that nice Mr. Spurrell! I was afraid my poor Deerfoot would have to be shot.
Undershell (to himself). She may thank me that he wasn't. And this other fellow gets all the credit for it. How like Life!
Lady Maisie. And, Uncle Rupert, how about—about Phillipson, you know? Is it all right?
Sir Rupert. Phillipson? Oh, why, 'pon my word, my dear, didn't think of asking.
Lady Rhoda. But I did, Maisie. And they met this mornin', and it's all settled, and they're as happy as they can be. Except that he's on the look out for a mysterious stranger, who disappeared last night, after tryin' to make desperate love to her. He is determined, if he can find him, to give him a piece of his mind.
[Undershell endeavours to conceal his extreme uneasiness.
Pilliner. And the whole of a horsewhip. He invited my opinion of it as an implement of castigation. Kind of thing, you know, that would impart "proficiency in the trois temps, as danced in the most select circles," in a single lesson to a lame bear. (To himself.) I drew my little bow at a venture, and I'm hanged if it hasn't touched him up! There's something fishy about this chap—I felt it all along. Still, I don't see what more I can do—or I'd do it, for poor old Gerry Thicknesse's sake.
Undershell (to himself). I don't stir a step out of this house while I'm here, that's all!