[He turns to continue a conversation.
Spurrell (to himself). Give it! He won't get it under a five-pound note, I can tell him. (He makes his way to Miss Spelwane.) I say, what do you think the old Bishop's been up to? Pitching into Andromeda like the very dooce—says she's sickly!
Miss Spelwane (to herself). He brings his literary disappointments to me, not Maisie! (Aloud, with the sweetest sympathy.) How dreadfully unjust! Oh, I've dropped my fan—no, pray don't trouble; I can pick it up. My arms are so long, you know—like a kangaroo's—no, what is that animal which has such long arms? You're so clever, you ought to know!
Spurrell. I suppose you mean a gorilla?
Miss Spelwane. How crushing of you! But you must go away now, or else you'll find nothing to say to me at dinner—you take me in, you know. I hope you feel privileged. I feel—— But if I told you, I might make you too conceited!
Spurrell (gracefully). Oh, it's not so easily done as all that!
[Sir Rupert approaches with Mr. Shorthorn.
Sir Rupert. Vivien, my dear, let me introduce Mr. Shorthorn—Miss Spelwane. (To Spurrell.) Let me see—ha—yes, you take in Mrs. Chatteris. Don't know her? Come this way, and I'll find her for you.
[He marches Spurrell off.
Mr. Shorthorn (to Miss Spelwane). Good thing getting this rain at last; a little more of this dry weather and we should have had no grass to speak of!