Pil. Very possibly, Captain Dorvaston, but I may remind you that your own appreciation assumed a very practical form.
Car. Won't you both be rather late? (they both look at each other and then go up to the door)
Pil. (turning at garden door) I fear we shall. I may have to return early—I am conscious of the approach of a headache.
Dor. Deuced odd thing! I feel a bit off colour—doubt if I shall manage to see it through.
Pil. Tut, tut! you look singularly well! Merely fancy, I'm sure. (opens door) Good-night, Cook!
Car. Good-night! (Pillenger goes out at back door)
Dor. (following) Good-night, Cook!
Car. Good-night!
Dor. (turning at door and speaking in whisper) Nine-thirty! (Cook nods—he goes out. After a second Mr. Pillenger puts his head in at the window)