A pleasant morning-room at Stammars. Lady Dudgeon is busy with her correspondence. To her enter Sir Thomas and Mr. Pomeroy. The former has a volume of Hansard under his arm, the latter carries a roll of manuscript. Lady Dudgeon lays down her pen and looks up.
"There is no fear, I hope, Mr. Pomeroy," she says, "that Sir Thomas's letter of thanks to his supporters will be too late for the next issue of the 'Pembridge Gazette'?"
"The editor has promised me that it shall appear on Saturday without fail."
"Have you got the speech ready that Sir Thomas is to deliver at the Farmer's Dinner on Tuesday next?"
"Sir Thomas had it from me yesterday."
"Have you looked over it, my dear?"--to the baronet.
"I fell asleep over it last night while you were at the ball."
"And you doubtless found that Mr. Pomeroy had succeeded in faithfully reproducing your views and ideas with regard to the various important topics on which you are desirous of addressing our friends on Tuesday next?"
"Mr. Pomeroy has written the speech. If he would only speak it too, I----"
"That is nonsense, dear. No one but yourself must be the exponent of your own ideas. Mr. Pomeroy's share in the transaction is a purely mechanical one--that of finding words wherewith to clothe the thoughts of a profoundly original mind. Am I not right, Mr. Pomeroy?"