Car. No. That belongs to Keziah.
Dor. This sounds promising. (reads) "The belted Earl entered the lists with lance in rest. His shield bore for device a bar sinister with Fleur de Lys rampant." That ain't heraldry!
Car. Yes, it is, (looking up) "Family Heraldry." (he laughs) I don't want to hurry you, but it's getting late.
Dor. (rises) Well, I—I hope you haven't misunderstood my—object in—bothering you?
Car. I should like to think I had.
Dor. I don't follow.
Car. Members of your profession don't generally make an appointment with cook in order to assure her of their respect.
Dor. Some of us may be a bit rackety, but we know a lady when we see one, and we shouldn't treat her any different because she chose to pretend to be a cook.
Car. Pretend?
Dor. (crosses C. and gets gradually to chair R. of table) Why, any duffer could see—I can see you were never meant to be what you are. These things generally come about through loss of coin—for instance, a woman's father speculates, and the home goes biff. He shuts up in his stride, and she takes up the running. Now what that woman wants is a friend to give her the lead over the fences—a friend who don't want anything from her—will you keep your eye on that?—who don't want anything from her, but who would like awfully to do her a turn, if she'd let him. I think that goes into the four corners of what I wanted to say. (sits)