ARTH. What can a man do such weather as this? It’s too hot to walk, too early for billiards—only fit for smoking. By-the-bye, I did manage to get as far as the stables, where I had a cigar.
MYRT. And this is the new leaf you promised me you would turn over—a tobacco-leaf! You are sadly deficient in energy, Mr. Vallance.
ARTH. I confess it. But brought up as I was from my earliest infancy under my uncle—
MYRT. (smiling). Under your uncle?
ARTH. Yes—(suddenly)—no, of course not. I mean under his supervision—how can I be otherwise than I am? He resents the slightest approach to activity as a slur on himself; and the highest compliment you can pay him is to yawn in his face (checking a yawn with difficulty).
MYRT. I beg pardon—I’m afraid I’m in the way.
ARTH. Not at all! But why are you in such a hurry to go?
MYRT. To allow you more leisure for (imitating ARTHUR’S yawn)—you know!
ARTH. Oh, Myrtle—do you object to my calling you Myrtle?