Lady Maisie. Don't run away, Rhoda; my maid has just done. You can go now, Phillipson.
Lady Rhoda (to herself, as she sits down). Phillipson! So that's the young woman that funny vet man prefers to Us! H'm, can't say I feel flattered!
Phill. (to herself, as she leaves the room). This must be the Lady Rhoda, who was making up to my Jem! He wouldn't have anything to say to her, though; and, now I see her, I am not surprised at it!
[She goes; a pause.
Lady Rhoda (crossing her feet on the fender). Well, we can't complain of havin' had a dull evenin', can we?
Lady Maisie (taking a hand-screen from the mantelshelf). Not altogether. Has—anything fresh happened since I left?
Lady Rhoda. Nothing particular. Archie apologised to this New Man in the Billiard Room. For the Booby Trap. We all told him he'd got to. And Mr. Carrion Bear, or Blundershell, or whatever he calls himself—you know—was so awf'lly gracious and condescendin' that I really thought poor dear old Archie would have wound up his apology by punchin' his head for him. Strikes me, Maisie, that mop-headed Minstrel Boy is a decided change for the worse. Doesn't it you?
Lady Maisie (toying with the screen). How do you mean, Rhoda?
Lady Rhoda. I meantersay I call Mr. Spurrell——Well, he's real, anyway—he's a man, don't you know. As for the other, so feeble of him missin' his train like he did, and turnin' up too late for everything! Now, wasn't it?
Lady Maisie. Poets are dreamy and unpractical and unpunctual—it's their nature.