JOHN. This is just the 21st.
MAGGIE. My things are all packed. I think you’ll find the house in good order, Lady Sybil. I have had the vacuum cleaners in. I’ll give you the keys of the linen and the silver plate; I have them in that bag. The carpet on the upper landing is a good deal frayed, but—-
SYBIL. Please, I don’t want to hear any more.
MAGGIE. The ceiling of the dining-room would be the better of a new lick of paint—-
SYBIL [stamping her foot, small fours]. Can’t you stop her?
JOHN [soothingly]. She’s meaning well. Maggie, I know it’s natural to you to value those things, because your outlook on life is bounded by them; but all this jars on me.
MAGGIE. Does it?
JOHN. Why should you be so ready to go?
MAGGIE. I promised not to stand in your way.
JOHN [stoutly]. You needn’t be in such a hurry. There are three days to run yet. [The French are so different from us that we shall probably never be able to understand why the COMTESSE laughed aloud here.] It’s just a joke to the Comtesse.