JOHN. We were there twice last week.
COMTESSE. There is a romantically damp little arbour at the end of what the villagers call the Lovers’ Lane.
JOHN. One can’t go there every day. I see nothing to laugh at.
COMTESSE. Did I laugh? I must have been translating the situation into French.
[Perhaps the music of the lawn-mower is not to JOHN’s mood, for he betakes himself to another room. MR. VENABLES pauses in his labours to greet a lady who has appeared on the lawn, and who is MAGGIE. She is as neat as if she were one of the army of typists [who are quite the nicest kind of women], and carries a little bag. She comes in through the window, and puts her hands over the COMTESSE’s eyes.]
COMTESSE. They are a strong pair of hands, at any rate.
MAGGIE. And not very white, and biggish for my size. Now guess.
[The COMTESSE guesses, and takes both the hands in hers as if she valued them. She pulls off MAGGIE’s hat as if to prevent her flying away.]
COMTESSE. Dear abominable one, not to let me know you were coming.
MAGGIE. It is just a surprise visit, Comtesse. I walked up from the station. [For a moment MAGGIE seems to have borrowed SYBIL’S impediment.] How is—everybody?