SIR HARRY. No, I'm not.
KATE. What was the name of that fat old fellow who used to fall asleep at our dinner-parties?
SIR HARRY. If you mean Sir William Crackley——
KATE. That was the man. Sir William was to me a perfect picture of the grand success. He had got on so well that he was very, very stout, and when he sat on a chair it was thus [her hands meeting in front of her]—as if he were holding his success together. That is what you are working for, Harry. You will have that and the half million about the same time.
SIR HARRY. [Who has surely been very patient.] Will you please to leave my house?
KATE. [Putting on her gloves, soiled things.] But don't let us part in anger. How do you think I am looking, Harry, compared to the dull, inert thing that used to roll round in your padded carriages?
SIR HARRY. [In masterly fashion.] I forget what you were like. I'm very sure you never could have held a candle to the present Lady Sims.
KATE. That is a picture of her, is it not?
SIR HARRY. [Seizing his chance again.] In her wedding-gown. Painted by an R.A.
KATE. [Wickedly.] A knight?