SIR CHARLES. [Dimly] I don't know whether old George is a bit too matter of fact for her. H'm?
[A short silence.]
LADY DEDMOND. There's a Mr. Malise coming here to-night. I forget if you know him.
HUNTINGDON. Yes. Rather a thorough-bred mongrel.
LADY DEDMOND. He's literary. [With hesitation] You—you don't think he—puts—er—ideas into her head?
HUNTINGDON. I asked Greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a bit of an Ishmaelite, even among those fellows. Can't see Clare——
LADY DEDMOND. No. Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be encouraged. Listen!—It is her-coming in. I can hear their voices. Gone to her room. What a blessing that man isn't here yet! [The door bell rings] Tt! There he is, I expect.
SIR CHARLES. What are we goin' to say?
HUNTINGDON. Say they're dining out, and we're not to wait Bridge for them.
SIR CHARLES. Good!