Enter Beatrice, L.D., and sits unobserved, on sofa.
Kate. (pointing to note) What did I tell you?
Nor. You said a quaver.
Kate. No, I said a crotchet.
Nor. Oh!
Kate. Certainly, a crotchet. This is how it goes. (takes the music, crosses him, and sits at piano and sings one verse of a song)
Nor. (enraptured) Thanks—oh thanks, awfully. (standing on her R.)
Bea. Rather high for you, isn’t it, my dear? (both turn)
Nor. Mrs. Selwyn! (turns and advances C.)
Kate. (rises) I beg your pardon?