Benson. Yes, ma'am, the flowers have come.
She holds open the door through which Vida, in a morning gown, comes in slowly. She is smoking a cigarette in as æsthetic a manner as she can, and is evidently turned out in her best style for conquest.
Vida. [Faces the balcony as she speaks, and is, as always, even and civil, but a bit disdainful toward her servant.] Terribly garish light, Benson. Pull down the— [Benson, obeying, partly pulls down the shade.] Lower still—that will do. [As she speaks she goes about the room, giving the tables a push here and the chairs a jerk there, and generally arranging the vases and ornaments.] Men hate a clutter of chairs and tables. [Stopping and taking up a hand mirror from the table, she faces the windows.] I really think I'm too pale for this light.
Benson. [Quickly, understanding what is implied.] Yes, ma'am. [Benson goes out for the rouge, and Vida seats herself at the table. There is a knock at the door.] Come! [Brooks comes in.
Brooks. [An ultra-English footman, in plush and calves.] Any horders, m'lady?
Vida. [Incapable of remembering the last man, or of considering the new one.] Oh,—of course! You're the new—
Brooks. Footman, m'lady.
Vida. [As a matter of form.] Your name?
Brooks. Brooks, m'lady. [Benson returns with the rouge.
Vida. [Carefully giving instructions while she keeps her eyes on the glass and is rouged by Benson.] Brooks, I am at home to Mr. Karslake at eleven; not to any one else till twelve, when I expect Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby.