Lucy. That’s true enough—in some of her dresses.
Ned. Come, come. That’s only on the stage. She has to dress according to her part. She’s not responsible for its clothing.
Lucy. (turning to Ned) The stage is an excuse for a great deal.
Ned. You mean, it’s an excuse for very little. Where had I got to? You’ve quite put me out.
Lucy. What are you writing that’s so very particular?
Ned. Only a letter.
Lucy. A letter. (crosses to Ned)
Ned. But it’s most important.
Lucy. (aside) A letter to Mrs. Blake. (leans over his shoulder; he covers the sheet with the blotting-paper)
Ned. Lucy, I wish you wouldn’t look over my shoulder. You don’t know how it fidgets me. I can’t write a line.