Rosa. Plague take the club! I love this man. Mr. Blake, be mine.
Pink T. (Loftily.) Oh, indeed! If it comes to that I think I am one too many. (Sails out R. 1.)
Blake. (Modestly.) I have been very indiscreet. Forgive me, dear.
Rosa. Darling, say no more, but you really must go at once. (Noise outside.) Too late. Get behind the screen there. (He runs behind screen R., Rosa L.)
Enter Dollie R.
Dollie. (With easy swagger.) Here’s a go! That silly little Bertie Howells thinks because I called on him three or four times and took him to a concert once that I’m going to marry him. Humph! he’s decidedly fresh. But this is the poor boy’s first season in society, and then (with jaunty air) I suppose I am to blame. So far forgot himself as to write me a note. Well, I must say, being an only child, his mamma’s millions are very tempting. But then his papa is insupportable, no pop-in-law for me just yet. (Looks at letter box, fingering letters.) “Grantly,” “Gorman,” “Ginseng,” “Gunther;” no Giglette. Well, the ninny hasn’t sent any more notes, thank fortune. I’m pestered to death with billet doux and designing papas. (Going L. sees Rosa behind screen.) Why, Lightfoot, old chap, what on earth are you standing in there for?
Rosa. (Stammers.) Why, you see Giglette—you know I was just listening if that induction was still in the heating coil. We could hear the engine throb plainly.
Dollie. The plumber fixed that last week. Come and have something.
Rosa. Excuse me please, you know I never drink.