lord goring. [Looking at himself in the glass.] Don’t think I quite like this buttonhole, Phipps. Makes me look a little too old. Makes me almost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps?
phipps. I don’t observe any alteration in your lordship’s appearance.
lord goring. You don’t, Phipps?
phipps. No, my lord.
lord goring. I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial buttonhole, Phipps, on Thursday evenings.
phipps. I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in her family lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality your lordship complains of in the buttonhole.
lord goring. Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England—they are always losing their relations.
phipps. Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect.
lord goring. [Turns round and looks at him. phipps remains impassive.] Hum! Any letters, Phipps?
phipps. Three, my lord. [Hands letters on a salver.]