Pil. About nine o'clock. It's a quiet hour, and usually free from callers.
Car. We'll hope it will prove so. Very well—till nine o'clock then. (she goes into kitchen—he crosses up to French window at Cook's exit, still looking after her, buried in thought. Crayll comes through gateway, stands at steps, sees Pillenger and speaks)
Cray. Mornin'! (Pillenger does not hear, so Crayll prods him in back with stick) Mornin'.
Pil. Eh! Oh, good morning! (comes C.)
Cray. What time's the funeral?
Pill. Funeral?
Cray. Ain't anybody dead? I rang your beastly front door bell till my arm ached; so I turned it up and came round to the back.
Pil. My butler—er—my male servant—is rather remiss. But to the best of my knowledge, he is still alive.
Cray. Damn sorry for it.
Pil. Tut, tut!