Archie. Well, you are slack. And there's a good hour still before lunch. Thicknesse, you suggest something, there's a dear old chap.
Capt. Thick. (after a mental effort). Suppose we all go and have another look round at the gees—eh, what?
Bertie. I beg to oppose. Do let's show some respect for the privacy of the British hunter. Why should I go and smack them on their fat backs, and feel every one of their horrid legs twice in one morning? I shouldn't like a horse coming into my bedroom at all hours to smack me on the back. I should hate it!
Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris. I love them—dear things! But still, it's so wet, and it would mean going up and changing our shoes too—perhaps Lady Rhoda——
[Lady Rhoda flatly declines to stir before lunch.
"I'll read you a regular rouser called 'A Trumpet Blast.'"
Capt. Thick. (resentfully). Only thought it was better than loafin' about, that's all. (To himself.) I do bar a woman who's afraid of a little mud. (He saunters up to Miss Spelwane and absently pulls the ear of a Japanese spaniel on her knee.) Poo' little fellow, then!
Miss Spelw. Poor little fellow? On My lap!!!
Capt. Thick. Oh, it—ah—didn't occur to me that he was on your lap. He don't seem to mind that.