Furness. My dear, you never told me what the doctors said to you. What did they say?
Diana. Well, anyhow, they said, "No more marrons glacés."
Furness. Really, Diana, how could I know?
Diana. You ought to have guessed. You've insulted me and I'm going home. And I shan't run away with you now. (Picks up her cloak and goes to the door.) Er—if I should change my mind in the morning I'll—er—telephone.
Next morning.
Furness (at the telephone). Yes—yes—no, Lorenzo—both ways. What? Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought it was—is it you, Diana?... You will come? Good.
Enter John Staffurth.
Staffurth. Good morning. (Looking at his watch.) I want a little talk with you if you aren't busy,
Furness. Certainly. (Handing box.) Won't you begin a cigarette?
Staffurth (taking out case). Thanks, I'll begin one of my own. (Does so.) Now then. My sister-in-law—or cousin or—anyhow, my friend Miss—or Mrs.—Cullen, Barbara Cullen, who—er—is still with us, told me some days ago that you were about to elope with my wife. Is that so?