Inkwell. To tea.
Miss Ivory. Wi—will—will you have some m—more—t—tea?
Inkwell [catching her hand and bringing her forward, he gives speech with Irish accent]. I don't want tea—I want you! I love you! Oh! My darlint, it is a terrible sensation I'ave for you, I'ave—'and me your little 'and in moine, for the loikes of you I never—[As all look dazed and Inkwell has trouble twisting his tongue.] I beg pardon, Mr. Sud, but this is a butler making love—I am playing the part of a gentleman—
Sud [has dropped from his stool and retired in tears and rage up right]. Haven't you any brains of your own? If a musician can transpose music by sight, can't you do the same to dialogue?
Inkwell. But a gentleman doesn't make love like a—
Sud [goes up stage again—ends at his stool by Wouldby]. He means the same—now go on—I can't stand these arguments. They will give me apoplexy!
Miss Ivory. Oh! Come on, Robert, say anything.
[They sit at table again.]
Inkwell. Ahem!
Miss Ivory. Wi—wi—will you have some more t—tea?