Undershell. I know I must seem unduly expansive, and wanting in reserve; and yet that is not my true disposition. In general, I feel an almost fastidious shrinking from strangers——
Phillipson (with a little laugh). Really? I shouldn't have thought it!
Undershell. Because, in the present case, I do not—I cannot—feel as if we were strangers. Some mysterious instinct led me, almost from the first, to associate you with a certain Miss Maisie Mull.
Phillipson. Well, I wonder how you discovered that. Though you shouldn't have said "Miss"—Lady Maisie Mull is the proper form.
Undershell (to himself). Lady Maisie Mull! I attach no meaning to titles—and yet nothing but rank could confer such perfect ease and distinction. (Aloud.) I should have said Lady Maisie Mull, undoubtedly—forgive my ignorance. But at least I have divined you. Does nothing tell you who and what I may be?
Phillipson. Oh, I think I can give a tolerable guess at what you are.
Undershell. You recognize the stamp of the Muse upon me, then?
Phillipson. Well, I shouldn't have taken you for a groom exactly.
Undershell (with some chagrin). You are really too flattering!
Phillipson. Am I? Then it's your turn now. You might say you'd never have taken me for a lady's maid!