Lord Strath. (to himself). Deuced quaint-looking people—wish they wouldn't all eat their soup at me! Why can't somebody say something? Wonder who's the Lady in black, all over big silver tears—like a foreign funeral. Don't feel equal to talking to Marjory again till I've had some Sherry. (After sipping it.) Wormwood, by Jove! Champagne will probably be syrup—touch old Gilwattle up if he isn't careful—ah, he jibs at the Sherry!
Uncle Gab. Where the dickens did Monty get this stuff, Maria? Most 'strordinary bitter taste!
Mrs. Tid. (to herself, in an agony). I knew that bottle of Gwennie's Quinine Wine had got down into the cellar somehow! (Aloud.) Don't drink it, Uncle, please, if it isn't quite what you like!
Uncle Gab. I'll take his Lordship's opinion. What do you think of this Sherry, my Lord? Don't you find it rather—eh?
Lord Strath. (observing his hostess frown at him imperiously). Oh, excellent, Sir—very—er—mellow and agreeable!
Uncle Gab. Ha—yes—now your Lordship mentions it, there's a sort of nuttiness about it.
[He empties his glass.
Lord Strath. (to himself). There is—a rotten-nuttiness! I'm hanged if he hasn't bolted it! Wonderful old Johnny!
Mrs. Tid. (to him, in an under-tone). You said quite the right thing!
Lord Strath. (ambiguously). Oh, not at all!