Mad. P. My dear, you will look like a June rose.
Dickie. And my hand, look at the great horrid black spot. (Exposes hand.)
Mad. P. It’ll all come off in a month.
Dickie. A month, did you say! Oh, I can’t endure it that long.
Mrs. C. Humph, I’ve been starving that long. Some people make a great fuss about nothing!
Dickie. But I must go to the charity ball next week!
Mad. P. Mrs. Compton, you have thirty minutes yet. The rings are next.
Mrs. C. Oh sugar! Maybe you think I’m a fool! I’m done with your old machine. I smashed it with the Indian clubs.
Mad. P. Smashed the machine! You shall pay for it. Indeed, you shall.