Lady Cantire (magnanimously). Well, we won't begin to quarrel the moment we meet; and you are forgetting your other guest. (In an undertone.) Mr. Spurrell—the poet—wrote Andromeda. (Aloud.) Mr. Spurrell, come and let me present you to my brother.
Sir Rupert. Ah, how d'ye do? (To himself, as he shakes hands.) What the deuce am I to say to this fellow? (Aloud.) Glad to see you here, Mr. Spurrell—heard all about you—Andromeda, eh? Hope you'll manage to amuse yourself while you're with us; afraid there's not much you can do now though.
Spurrell (to himself). Horse in a bad way; time they let me see it. (Aloud.) Well, we must see, sir; I'll do all I can.
Sir Rupert. You see, the shooting's done now.
Spurrell (to himself, professionally piqued). They might have waited till I'd seen the horse before they shot him! After calling me in like this! (Aloud.) Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Sir Rupert. I wish I could have got here earlier, I'm sure.
Sir Rupert. Wish we'd asked you a month ago, if you're fond of shooting. Thought you might look down on sport, perhaps.
Spurrell (to himself). Sport? Why, he's talking of birds—not the horse! (Aloud.) Me, Sir Rupert? Not much! I'm as keen on a day's gunning as any man, though I don't often get the chance now.
Sir Rupert (to himself, pleased). Come, he don't seem strong against the Game Laws! (Aloud.) Thought you didn't look as if you sat over your desk all day! There's hunting still, of course. Don't know whether you ride?
Spurrell. Rather so, sir! Why, I was born and bred in a sporting county, and as long as my old uncle was alive, I could go down to his farm and get a run with the hounds now and again.
Sir Rupert (delighted). Capital! Well, our next meet is on Tuesday—best part of the country; nearly all grass, and nice clean post and rails. You must stay over for it. Got a mare that will carry your weight perfectly, and I think I can promise you a run—eh, what do you say?