Bea. I’m sorry to say my husband is not at all well this morning.
Nor. Old Lund seems to be making him worse instead of better.
Bea. Sir Peter has now been here a week, and Philip has grown worse every day.
Nor. I’m sure I oughtn’t to find fault with Lund; he’s polished off nearly all my relations for me; but I’m not certain that I quite believe in the old boy. There’s too much M.D.F.S.A. about him. I never knew a fool who hadn’t half the alphabet at the end of his name. (turns away a few steps)
Kate. (demurely) At which end my Lord Edward, Arthur, Henry, Earl of Normantower? (coming down to R. of Normantower, R.C., can in hand. Beatrice rises and goes to fire L., taking book with her)
Nor. Now, that’s too bad of you, Miss Derwent. It’s not my fault that I’ve enough names to christen the family of a curate.
Kate. Let this be a lesson to you. Don’t throw stones at a friend of mine! (goes up to opening R.C.)
Nor. Mine was a very little stone; yours was half a brick. (Kate continues watering the plants)
Phil. (off, L.) Beatrice!
Bea. My husband! I must leave Miss Derwent to console you. She won’t have many more opportunities. (goes up L.)