[He puts his arm round her and kisses her.]
The Girl: I have my own, thank you.
White: O, you have, have you?
[She moves to go. Burns is fumbling with his letter, beyond any easy reading of it.]
Muir (filling the last cup): A moment, Meg. The bowl is empty. We will replenish it. Bear it in front of us. Come, Baliol, we will administer the ingredients together. Excuse us, gentlemen.
[Meg carries the bowl out, Muir and White following her.
Ogilvie has subsided on to the floor, and is lying with his head on Duncan’s knee, both asleep.]
Burns (the opened letter in his hand): This handwriting is confoundedly fidgetty.
Simpson (who has carried his liquor better than the rest): Is it of a private character, Mr. Burns?
Burns: Its character escapes me.