Vida. [Getting promptly to work.] H'm, h'm, I shall be caught. [Rising.] The box of roses, Benson! [Benson brings the box of roses, uncovers the flowers and places them at Vida's side.] My gloves—the clippers, and the vase! [Each of these things Benson places in turn within Vida's range where she sits on the sofa. She has the long box of roses at her side on a small table, a vase of water on the floor by her side. She cuts the stems and places the roses in the vase. When she feels that she has reached a picturesque position, in which any onlooker would see in her a creature filled with the love of flowers and of her fellow man, she says:] There! [The door opens and Brooks comes in; Vida nods to Benson.
Brooks. [Announcing stolidly.] Sir John Karslake.
John, dressed in very nobby riding togs, comes in gaily and forcibly. Benson withdraws as he enters, and is followed by Brooks. Vida, from this moment on, is busied with her roses.
Vida. [Languorously, but with a faint suggestion of humour.] Is that really you, Sir John?
John. [Lively and far from being impressed by Vida.] I see now where we Americans are going to get our titles. Good-morning! You look as fresh as paint. [He lays his gloves and riding crop on the table, and takes a chair.
Vida. [Facing the insinuation with gentle pain.] I hope you don't mean that? I never flattered myself for a moment you'd come. You're riding Cynthia K?
John. Fiddler's going to lead her round here in ten minutes!
Vida. Cigars and cigarettes! Scotch?
[Indicating a small table.
John. Scotch! [Goes up quickly to table and helps himself to Scotch and seltzer.