Phoebe. “Gave her the evening out”!
Elizabeth. We are speaking of your wife, man, not your servant.
Hake. Yes, miss. You see, we don’t keep servants in our class. Somebody’s got to put the children to bed.
Elizabeth. Why not the man—occasionally?
Hake. Well, you see, miss, in my case, I rarely getting home much before midnight, it would make it so late. Yesterday being my night off, things fitted in, so to speak. Will there be any writing, miss?
Phoebe. Yes. See that there’s plenty of blotting-paper. (To Elizabeth.) Mamma always splashes so.
Hake. Yes, miss.
(He goes out.)
Elizabeth. Did you ever hear anything more delightfully naïve? He “gave” her the evening out. That’s how they think of us—as their servants. The gentleman hasn’t the courage to be straightforward about it. The butler blurts out the truth. Why are we meeting here instead of at our own place?
Phoebe. For secrecy, I expect. Too many gasbags always about the office. I fancy—I’m not quite sure—that mamma’s got a new idea.