SIR HARRY. The sword will lend it an air. There are really the five moments—[suiting the action to the word]—the glide—the dip—the kiss—the tap—and you back out a knight. It's short, but it's a very beautiful ceremony. [Kindly.] Anything you can suggest?
LADY SIMS. No—oh, no. [Nervously, seeing him pause to kiss the tassel of a cushion.] You don't think you have practised till you know what to do almost too well?
[He has been in a blissful temper, but such niggling criticism would try any man.
SIR HARRY. I do not. Don't talk nonsense. Wait till your opinion is asked for.
LADY SIMS. [Abashed.] I'm sorry, Harry. [A perfect butler appears and presents a card.] "The Flora Typewriting Agency."
SIR HARRY. Ah, yes. I telephoned them to send some one. A woman, I suppose, Tombes?
TOMBES. Yes, Sir Harry.
SIR HARRY. Show her in here. [He has very lately become a stickler for etiquette.] And, Tombes, strictly speaking, you know, I am not Sir Harry till Thursday.
TOMBES. Beg pardon, sir, but it is such a satisfaction to us.
SIR HARRY. [Good-naturedly.] Ah, they like it down-stairs, do they?