MRS. MURPHY. It's pretty as a flower you look, Miss. And I'd not be askin' questions, for it's none of my business at all, but who are you fixin' yourself up for to-day, if you know yourself?
ISABEL. What difference does it make? I go into rehearsal next week, and there's a manager that will want to make love to me, and he's fat, and I'll get to hate and loathe the sight of male mankind—and this is my last week to enjoy myself! (She goes to the door at the back.) Besides, Jim may have another girl by this time, or Mr. Falcington's wife may come.
She goes into the inner room.
MRS. MURPHY. His wife—God help us!
_She shakes her head, and starts to go out.
There is a knock. She opens the door, and admits a woman in a travelling suit_.
THE WOMAN. Is Mr. Falcington here?
MRS. MURPHY. (disingenuously) There's a party of that name on the east side of the Square if I'm not mistaken, ma'am, in the Benedick, bachelor apartments like—'tis there you might inquire.
THE WOMAN. There's no Mr. Falcington here?
MRS. MURPHY. On another floor, maybe. 'Tis a lady lives here.