PURDIE (diffidently). I don't like to before you, Joanna.
JOANNA (becoming coarse again). Oh, don't mind me.
PURDIE (looking like a note of interrogation). I should certainly like to say it.
MABEL (loftily). And I shall be proud to hear it.
PURDIE. I should have liked to spare you this, Joanna; you wouldn't put your hands over your ears?
JOANNA (alas). No, sir.
MABEL. Fie, Joanna. Surely a wife's natural delicacy ...
PURDIE (severely). As you take it in that spirit, Joanna, I can proceed with a clear conscience. If the dog-like devotion of a lifetime—(He reels a little, staring at LOB, over whose face the leer has been wandering like an insect.)
MABEL. Did he move?
PURDIE. It isn't that. I am feeling—very funny. Did one of you tap me just now on the forehead?