Mrs. Fell. You’re a sweet child.
Spindler. [Snapping his salute] Thank you. [He does an about-face and goes up to Mrs. Ritter,—Ritter watching him with an expression susceptible of infinite interpretation.]
Mrs. Fell. The only man I’ve met in a long time that has made me wish I were—ten years younger.
Ritter. Ha!
Mrs. Fell. [Pertly] Outside of you, of course.
Mrs. Pampinelli. [With a touch of wearied impatience] Look here, dear.
Mrs. Fell. [Stepping quickly to the table again and re-adjusting her lorgnon] Yes, I beg your pardon.
Mrs. Pampinelli. You see, in this line here,—the author has employed a defective verb in the perfect tense. [Mrs. Fell looks suddenly at her and then right back to the manuscript again. Ritter is watching them closely.] Would you come here for a moment, Mr. Spindler?
Spindler. Certainly, certainly. [Excuses himself to Mrs. Ritter, with whom he has been chatting, and comes down briskly to Mrs. Fell’s left.]
Mrs. Pampinelli. If you please.