Lord Blesh. (tenderly). I say, I—I wish you would make me a little housewife!
[Comedy love-dialogue omitted owing to want of space.
Verb. Oh, do look!—there's Papa crossing the lawn with, oh, such a horrid man following him!
Lord B. Regular bounder. Shocking bad hat!
Verb. Not so bad as his boots, and they are not so bad as his face! Why doesn't Papa order him to go away? Oh, he is actually inviting him in!
Enter Sir Poshbury, gloomy and constrained, with Spiker, who is jaunty, and somewhat over familiar.
Spiker (sitting on the piano, and dusting his boots with his handkerchief). Cosy little shanty you've got here, Puddock—very tasty!
Sir P. (with a gulp). I am—ha—delighted that you approve of it! Ah, Verbena! [Kisses her on forehead.
Spiker. Your daughter, eh? Pooty gal. Introduce me.
[Sir Posh. introduces him—with an effort.