Barlow. Well, don’t get another. (Turning to Mrs. Perkins.) Suppose we rehearse that scene where I acquaint you with Cobb’s real position in life?
Mrs. Perkins. Very well. I’m ready. I’m to sit here, am I not? [Seats herself by table.
Barlow. And I come in here. (Begins.) Ah, Lady Ellen, I am glad to find you alone, for I have that to say—
Mrs. Perkins. Won’t you be seated, Mr. Featherhead? It was such a delightful surprise to see you at the Duchess of Barncastle’s last evening. I had supposed you still in Ireland.
Barlow (aside). Good. She little thinks that I have just returned from Australia, where I have at last discovered the identity of the real Earl of Puddingford, as well as that of this bogus Muddleton, who, by his nefarious crime, has deprived Henry Cobb of his patrimony, of his title, aye, even of his name. She little wots that this—this adventurer who has so strongly interested her by his nepotic—
Mrs. Perkins (interrupting). Hypnotic, Mr. Barlow.
Barlow. What did I say?
Mrs. Perkins. Nepotic.
Barlow. How stupid of me! I’ll begin again.
Mrs. Perkins (desperately). Oh, pray don’t. Go on from where you left off. That’s a fearfully long aside, anyhow, and I go nearly crazy every time you say it. I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s easy enough for Mr. Yardsley to say occupy yourself somehow, but what I want to know is, how? I can’t look inquiringly at you all that time, waiting for you to say “Ireland! Oh, yes—yes—just over from Dublin.” I can’t lean against the mantel-piece and gaze into the fire, because the mantel-piece is only canvas, and would fall down if I did.