Undershell (to himself). She's becoming absolutely vulgar. (Aloud.) I don't—I don't; it's a manner I have; you mustn't attach any importance to it—none whatever!
Phillipson. What! Not to all those high-flown compliments? Do you mean to tell me you are only a gay deceiver, then?
Undershell (in horror). Not a deceiver, no; and decidedly not gay. I mean I did mean the compliments, of course. (To himself.) I mustn't let her suspect anything, or she'll get talking about it; it would be too horrible if this were to get round to Lady Maisie or the Culverins—so undignified; and it would ruin all my prestige! I've only to go on playing a part for a few minutes, and—maid or not—she's a most engaging girl!
[He goes on playing the part, with the unexpected result of sending Miss Phillipson into fits of uncontrollable laughter.
At a Back Entrance at Wyvern. The Fly has just set down Phillipson and Undershell.
Tredwell (receiving Phillipson). Lady Maisie's maid, I presume? I'm the butler here—Mr. Tredwell. Your ladies arrived some time back. I'll take you to the housekeeper, who'll show you their rooms, and where yours is, and I hope you'll find everything comfortable. (In an undertone, indicating Undershell, who is awaiting recognition in the doorway.) Do you happen to know who it is with you?
Phillipson (in a whisper). I can't quite make him out—he's so flighty in his talk. But he says he belongs to some Mews or other.
Tredwell. Oh, then I know who he is. We expect him right enough. He's a partner in a crack firm of Vets. We've sent for him special. I'd better see to him, if you don't mind finding your own way to the housekeeper's room, second door to the left, down that corridor. (Phillipson departs.) Good evening to you, Mr.—ah—Mr.——?
Undershell (coming forward). Mr. Undershell. Lady Culverin expects me, I believe.
Tredwell. Quite correct, Mr. Undershell, sir. She do. Leastwise, I shouldn't say myself she'd require to see you—well, not before to-morrow morning—but you won't mind that, I dare say.