Viola. Very well! Then mind you don't tell anyone!
Alan. Not tell anyone, Mrs. Travers! But what's the use of a secret if one doesn't tell it to everyone?
Viola. Oh!
Alan. I was only joking, dear Mrs. Travers. At three, then.... Sh-sh! (He picks up her fan with the air of a conspirator.) If I think of anything else, I'll write a little note, and put it under the clock on that mantelpiece. Shall I?
Viola. What fun! But would it be safe?
Alan. Would you rather we corresponded in the Times about it, Mrs. Travers?
Viola. You're making fun of the whole thing.
[She pouts, &c. He shows by her Line of Fate that all will be well.
Mrs. Averidge (to herself). Well of all the dull houses I ever stayed at!... Piquet in the drawing-room, chants in the billiard-room, palmistry with Infant Phenomenons on the Terrace!... It's quite true, too, what that affected little Vane girl said—the colour is trying.... I'll never come here again!
[Retires to her room in disgust.