Spurr. (modestly). Oh, I don't know—I suppose I am, in a sort of way, through Andromeda. Seem to think so here, anyhow.
Lady Rh. Well, I'd better tell you at once, I'm no good at Poetry—can't make head or tail of it, some'ow. It does seem to me such—well, such footle. Awf'ly rude of me sayin' things like that!
Spurr. Is it? I'm just the same—wouldn't give a penny a yard for Poetry, myself!
Lady Rh. You wouldn't? I am glad. Such a let-off for me! I was afraid you'd want to talk of nothin' else, and the only things I can really talk about are horses and dogs, and that kind of thing.
Spurr. That's all right, then. All I don't know about dogs and horses you could put in a homœopathic globule—and then it would rattle!
Lady Rh. Then you're just the man. Look here, I've an Airedale at home, and he's losin' all his coat and——
[They converse with animation.
Spurr. (later—to himself). I am getting on. I always knew I was made for Society. If only this coat was easier under the arms!
Thomas (behind him—in a discreet whisper). Beg your pardon, Sir, but I was requested to 'and you this note, and wait for an answer.
Spurr. (opening it, and reading). "Mr. Galfrid Undershell thinks that the gentleman who is occupying the Verney Chamber has, doubtless by inadvertence, put on Mr. Undershell's evening clothes. As he requires them immediately, he will be obliged by an early appointment being made, with a view to their return." (To himself.) Oh, Lor! Then it wasn't Sir Rupert, after all! Just when I was beginning to enjoy my evening, too. What on earth am I to say to this chap? I can't take 'em all off here!