LORD LOAM. Any one will do.
CRICHTON (shocked). My lord!
LORD LOAM. The ingrate! The puppy!
(AGATHA has an idea, and whispers to LADY MARY.)
LADY MARY. I ask a favour of a servant?—never!
AGATHA. Then I will. Crichton, would it not be very distressing to you to let his lordship go, attended by a valet who might prove unworthy? It is only for three months; don’t you think that you—you yourself—you—
(As CRICHTON sees what she wants he pulls himself up with noble, offended dignity, and she is appalled.)
I beg your pardon.
(He bows stiffly.)
CATHERINE (to CRICHTON). But think of the joy to Tweeny.