Bill.
I can’t help it. This Russian mess ain’t a Christian drink. I can’t think how you can swallow it.
Lady Patricia.
I don’t suppose I like it any better than you, dear. But the mixture of cream and tea, as I have often told you, produces an odious colour—and I refuse to encourage it. You should try to do likewise.... However, you will find cream in the summer-house.
Bill.
Right-ho! (Goes into summer-house.) Hullo! Good man! Here’s whisky-and-soda. (Talking in the summer-house, half to himself, half to her.) That’s the stuff! Nothing like a syphonated spot when one’s got a real thirst! No tea for me, thanks.
Lady Patricia.
(To herself, smiling.) Dear babbler....
Bill.