Lady Maisie. In that case I shall certainly not trouble you. (To herself.) He may think just what he pleases, I don't care. But, oh, if Mr. Spurrell dares to speak to me after this, I shall astonish him!
Lady Rhoda (to Spurrell). I say—I am in a funk. Only just heard who I'm next to. I always do feel such a perfect fool when I've got to talk to a famous person—and you're frightfully famous, aren't you?
Spurrell (modestly). Oh, I don't know—I suppose I am, in a sort of way, through Andromeda. Seem to think so here, anyhow.
Lady Rhoda. Well, I'd better tell you at once, I'm no good at poetry—can't make head or tail of it, some'ow. It does seem to me such—well, such footle. Awf'ly rude of me sayin' things like that!
"IT DOES SEEM TO ME SUCH—WELL, SUCH FOOTLE."
Spurrell. Is it? I'm just the same—wouldn't give a penny a yard for poetry, myself!
Lady Rhoda. You wouldn't? I am glad. Such a let-off for me! I was afraid you'd want to talk of nothin' else, and the only things I can really talk about are horses and dogs, and that kind of thing.
Spurrell. That's all right, then. All I don't know about dogs and horses you could put in a homœopathic globule—and then it would rattle!
Lady Rhoda. Then you're just the man. Look here, I've an Airedale at home, and he's losin' all his coat and——