MRS. GWYN. [Quickly breaking ivy.] What are you talking about? The weather's perfect.
MISS BEECH. Isn't it?
MRS. HOPE. You'd better make a good tea, Peachey; nobody'll get anything till eight, and then only cold shoulder. You must just put up with no hot dinner, Mr. Lever.
LEVER. [Bowing.] Whatever is good enough for Miss Beech is good enough for me.
MISS BEECH. [Sardonically-taking another sandwich.] So you think!
MRS. GWYN. [With forced gaiety.] Don't be so absurd, Peachey.
[MISS BEECH, grunts slightly.]
COLONEL. [Once more busy with his papers.] I see the name of your engineer is Rodriguez—Italian, eh?
LEVER. Portuguese.
COLONEL. Don't like that!