LADY SIMS. Envied? Oh, no—but I thought she looked so alive. It was while she was working the machine.
SIR HARRY. Alive! That's no life. It is you that are alive. [Curtly.] I'm busy, Emmy.
[He sits at his writing-table.
LADY SIMS. [Dutifully.] I'm sorry; I'll go, Harry. [Inconsequentially.] Are they very expensive?
SIR HARRY. What?
LADY SIMS. Those machines?
[When she has gone the possible meaning of her question startles him. The curtain hides him from us, but we may be sure that he will soon be bland again. We have a comfortable feeling, you and I, that there is nothing of Harry Sims in us.