Dor. Just so, sir; but I mean she is—don't you know—isn't she?
Pil. (crosses down L. C.) She is undoubtedly possessed of great refinement for anyone in her present sphere.
Dor. Refinement! (crosses down R. C.)
Pil. We gathered from the Duchess of Sturton that Cook had seen better days. Her Grace is somewhat vague conversationally; but we understood as much as that.
Dor. (confidentially, he hides Lucy from Pillenger's view) Funny thing a woman like that should be running loose. Odd she hasn't married some fellah.
Pil. It is singular—in fact remarkable. For a certain type of man she would make—I should say—an admirable wife.
Dor. Just the wife for a soldier man!
Pil. Pardon me, I disagree with you. No—she has a quietude, a dignified reserve—that would fit her to preside over the household of a staid medical man—or a barrister in fair practice—who was no longer young—or even—a—a—— (catches Dorvaston's eye) But we're wasting the morning. (crosses L.)
Lucy. Don't say that, uncle. (they both stare at her)
Pil. Lucy! (crosses to top of chair R.)