Phil. I never said he had written a book.
Mrs. M. G. Phil—you did!—Sabrina's Other—Something. Why, I've been praising it to him, entirely on your recommendation.
Phil. No, no—your mistake. I only asked you if you'd read Sabrina's Uncle's Other Niece, and, as I made up the title on the spur of the moment, I should have been rather surprised if you had. He never wrote a line in his life.
Mrs. M. G. How abominable of you! But surely he's famous for something? He talks like it. [With reviving hope.
Phil. Oh, yes, he's the inventor and patentee of the new "Sabrina" Soap—he says he'll make a fortune over it.
Mrs. M. G. But he hasn't even done that yet! Phil, I'll never forgive you for letting me make such an idiot of myself. What am I to do now? I can't have him coming to me—he's really too impossible!
Phil. Do? Oh, order some of the soap, and wash your hands of him, I suppose—not that he isn't a good deal more presentable than some of your lions, after all's said and done!
[Mrs. M. G., before she takes her leave, contrives to inform Mr. Tablett, with her prettiest penitence, that she has only just recollected that her luncheon party is put off, and that her Tuesdays are over for the Season. Directly she returns to Town, she promises to let him hear from her; in the meantime, he is not to think of troubling himself to call. So there is no harm done, after all.