LADY F. Forgive you! for what? (insinuatingly, and moving her chair nearer to ARTHUR, who draws his back).
ARTH. For the confession which, alas! (here a very deep sigh) I am about to make.
LADY F. Continue, I beg!
ARTH. Oh, madam, dear madam, dearest madam, if you only knew all!
LADY F. Hall? A gentleman of your acquaintance?
ARTH. I didn’t say Hall, madam! Let me observe, Lady Fritterly, that this is no subject for levity.
LADY F. No one would imagine it was, from your countenance, Mr. Vallance. Its solemnity is positively, painfully ludicrous!
SIR F. (listening). Why the deuce don’t he open his batteries?
ARTH. (seeing SIR FELIX, who is making energetic signs to him to proceed with his love-making. Aside). Well, since he will insist upon it, here goes! (Aloud, and in an ultra impassioned tone.) Loveliest of women!—pardon the apparent insanity of the remark—I love you! adore you! in fact, I rather like you! Behold me at your feet! (flopping down on one knee. Here SIR F. reaches over and tickles COSEY with the feather brush, who starts up and shows his head above the back of couch; then, seeing he is not alone, withdraws his head again out of sight).