Verb. Oh, do look!—there's Papa crossing the lawn with, oh, such a horrid man following him!
Lord B. Regular bounder. Shocking bad hat!
Verb. Not so bad as his boots, and they are not so bad as his face! Why doesn't Papa order him to go away? Oh, he is actually inviting him in!
Enter Sir Poshbury, gloomy and constrained, with Spiker, who is jaunty, and somewhat over-familiar.
Spiker (sitting on the piano, and dusting his boots with a handkerchief). Cosy little shanty you've got here, Puddock—very tasty!
Sir P. (with a gulp). I am—ha—delighted that you approve of it! Ah, Verbena!
[Kisses her on forehead.
Spiker. Your daughter, eh? Pooty gal. Introduce me.
[Sir Posh. introduces him—with an effort.
Verbena. (coldly). How do you do? Papa, did you know that the sashline of this window was broken? If it is not mended, it will fall on somebody's head, and perhaps kill him!