It makes me feel awfully grand.
Lady Wanley.
I adore them both, so you must like them. These dear things were waiting to be married. Lewis was a curate in some dreadfully shabby suburb, and he’s a saint.
Abbott.
I wish you wouldn’t say such absurd things about me.
Lady Wanley.
Nonsense. He’s a saint, but quite a modern nice sort of saint, who plays cricket and doesn’t wear a hair shirt. And of course he couldn’t marry Rosie, who hadn’t a penny to bless herself with, but Providence came to the rescue and carried off our old Vicar with influenza.
Rosie.
What dreadful things you say, Lady Wanley!
Lady Wanley.