Phill. I don't know whether he's magic—but I'm sure he's lame. And I shouldn't call stuffiness enchantment myself.
Und. I'm not prepared to deny the stuffiness. But cannot you guess what has transformed this vehicle for me—in spite of its undeniable shortcomings—or must I speak more plainly still?
Phill. Well, considering the shortness of our acquaintance, I must say you've spoken quite plainly enough as it is!
Und. I know I must seem unduly expansive, and wanting in reserve; and yet that is not my true disposition. In general, I feel an almost fastidious shrinking from strangers——
Phill. (with a little laugh). Really, I shouldn't have thought it!
Und. Because, in the present case, I do not—I cannot—feel as if we were strangers. Some mysterious instinct led me, almost from the first, to associate you with a certain Miss Maisie Mull.
Phill. Well, I wonder how you discovered that. Though you shouldn't have said "Miss"—Lady Maisie Mull is the name.
Und. (to himself). Lady Maisie Mull! I attach no meaning to titles—and yet nothing but rank could confer such perfect ease and distinction. (Aloud.) I should have said Lady Maisie Mull, undoubtedly—forgive my ignorance. But at least I have divined you. Does nothing tell you who and what I may be?
Phill. Oh, I think I can give a tolerable guess at what you are.
Und. You recognise the stamp of the Muse upon me, then?