Bea. Here it is, dear. (gives him the glass—advancing to him)
Phil. (grimacing) You can’t think how I hate it.
Bea. Don’t be so absurd. I declare, you’re as great a baby as she is. (backs up stage, watching him)
Phil. One—two—three! (drinks it off. Beatrice gives a sigh of satisfaction) Ugh! Give me some water. (goes to piano and puts glass down)
Bea. (passes behind table down to L. of it) Why, the tumbler is gone! Who can have taken it? (looking about)
Phil. Johnson, I daresay. (sits R. by piano) All right; I’m better now. That’s one dose less to take. (Re-enter Sir Peter through conservatory, with the goblet empty) Three more, I think you said.
Bea. (holds up bottle) But there are only two! (alarmed) Someone’s been here!
Sir P. Yes, I have. (comes down C. to R. of sofa)
Bea. (terrified) You!