Mrs. T. I mean nothing of the sort. Mrs. Toomer's got influenza again—luckily, so of course we shall be just twelve.
Mr. T.'s V. Maria, why didn't you tell me that before? Because I say, look here!——
[He half opens the door.
Mrs. T. I won't have you coming in here all over soap, there's nothing to get excited about. Twelve's a very convenient number.
Mr. T.'s V. Twelve! Yes—but how about that fellow you told me to order from Blankley's? He'll be the thirteenth!
Mrs. T. Montague, don't say you went and ordered him, after I expressly said you were not to mind, and that I would see about it myself! You heard me call after you from the front door?
Mr. T.'s V. I—I understood you to say that I was to mind and see to it myself; and so I went there the very first thing. The Manager assured me he would send us a person accustomed to the best society, who would give every satisfaction. I couldn't be expected to know you had changed your mind!
Mrs. T. How could you be so idiotic! We simply can't sit down thirteen. Uncle will think we did it on purpose to shorten his life, Montague, do something—write, and put him off, quick—do you hear?
Mr. T.'s V. (plaintively). My love, I can't write while I'm like this—and I've no pen and ink in here, either!
Jane (outside). Please, Sir, Seakale would like a word with you about the Sherry you put out—it don't seem to ta—smell quite right to him.