Pil. (rises excitedly and leans over table) Bitten by a dog! Good Heavens! My dear sir, the place should be cauterised at once—no time should be lost!
Cray. Oh, don't be such an ass! I mean whiskey. (looking closely at Pillenger) What's that on your face? What is it? What's that filthy black thing crawling over your face?
Pil. I—er—you probably——
Cray. What is it? (loudly—rises excitedly) Why the devil don't you tell me what it is?
Pil. A slight accident in shaving. My razor is somewhat out of condition—merely sticking plaster.
Cray. Oh! (subsiding) Thought it was a spider. (pause) I want to talk to you.
Pil. Yes. (sits)
Cray. Want to say a word or two about your Cook. (Dorvaston makes a slight movement; Miss Pillenger crosses down to chair)
Pil. Indeed!
Cray. I s'pose you didn't know much about her when you took her. Did you?