Luke. Ah, and ’twas lost on the way as we did find her, like a strayed sheep.
Miles. And ours has been the privilege to bring the fair wanderer safely home.
Emily. [Scornfully looking Joan over from head to foot.] Where’s that serving wench of yours got to, Clara?
Miles. Our young missy had a wish for solitude. She sent her maid on by another road.
Emily. The good-for-nothing hussy. I warrant as she have found something of mischief for her idle hands to do.
Miles. If I may venture to say so, our Miss Clara is somewhat fatigued by her long stroll. London young ladies are very delicately framed, Missis Spring.
Emily. [Pointing ungraciously.] There’s chairs right in front of you.
[Miles and Luke lead Joan forward, placing her in an armchair with every attention. Joan sinks into it, and, taking a little fan from the silken bag on her arm, begins to fan herself violently.
Emily. [Watching her with fierce contempt.] Maybe as you’d like my kitchen wench to come and do that for you, Clara, seeing as your fine maid is gadding about the high roads instead of minding what it concerns her to attend to.
Joan. [Faintly.] O no, thank you. The day is rather warm—that’s all.