Mr. F. (with the common-sense that makes him "so aggravating at times.") Well, FANNY, you could hardly expect 'em to foresee the weather three weeks ahead!
Mrs. F. At all events, you might have seen what it was going to be as you came home from the Temple. Then we could have sent a telegram!
Mr. F. It seemed to be lifting then, and besides, I—ah—regard a dinner-engagement as a species of kindly social contract, not to be broken except under pressing necessity.
Mrs. F. You mean you heard me say there was nothing but cold meat in the house, and you know you'll get a good dinner at the CORDON-BLEWITTS,—not that we are likely to get there to-night. Have you any idea whereabouts we are?
Mr. F. (calmly). None whatever.
Mrs. F. Then ask PEACOCK.
Mr. F. (lets down his window, and leans out). PEACOCK!
The Shadow. Sir?
Mr. F. Where have we got to now?
Peacock. I ain't rightly sure, Sir.