Lady Cantire. Nonsense, my dear, no walk at all; the church is only just across the park. My brother Rupert always goes, and it pleases him to see the Wyvern pew as full as possible. I seldom feel equal to going myself, because I find the necessity of allowing pulpit inaccuracy to pass without a protest gets too much on my nerves; but my daughter will accompany you. You'll have just time to run up and get your things on.
Mrs. Chatteris (with arch significance). I don't fancy I shall have the pleasure of your daughter's society this morning. I just met her going to get the garden keys; I think she has promised to show the grounds to——Well, I needn't mention whom. Oh dear me, I hope I'm not being indiscreet again!
Lady Cant. I make a point of never interfering with my daughter's proceedings, and you can easily understand how natural it is that such old friends as they have always been——
Mrs. Chatt. Really? I thought they seemed to take a great pleasure in one another's society. It's quite romantic. But I must rush up and get my bonnet on if I'm to go to church. (To herself, as she goes out.) So she was "Lady Grisoline," after all! If I was her mother—— But dear Lady Cantire is so advanced about things.
Lady Cant. (to herself). Darling Maisie! He'll be Lord Dunderhead before very long. How sensible and sweet of her! And I was quite uneasy about them last night at dinner; they scarcely seemed to be talking to each other at all. But there's a great deal more in dear Maisie than one would imagine.
Sir Rupert (outside). We're rather proud of our church, Mr. Undershell—fine old monuments and brasses, if you care about that sort of thing. Some of us will be walking over to service presently, if you would like to——
Undershell (outside—to himself). And lose my tête-à-tête with Lady Maisie! Not exactly! (Aloud.) I am afraid, Sir Rupert, that I cannot conscientiously——
Sir Rup. (hastily). Oh, very well, very well; do exactly as you like about it, of course. I only thought——(To himself.) Now that other young chap would have gone!
Lady Cant. Rupert, who is that you are talking to out there? I don't recognise his voice, somehow.
Sir Rup. (entering with Undershell). Ha, Rohesia, you've come down, then? slept well, I hope. I was talking to a gentleman whose acquaintance I know you will be very happy to make—at last. This is the genuine celebrity this time. (To Undershell.) Let me make you known to my sister, Lady Cantire, Mr. Undershell. (As Lady Cantire glares interrogatively.) Mr. Clarion Blair, Rohesia, author of hum—ha—Andromache.