Porteous. Saint Antony be blowed! It’s Clive, by God!
Lady Kitty. [Startled, her attention suddenly turning from the lip-stick.] Clive!
C.-C. You didn’t recognise me. It’s many years since we met.
Lady Kitty. My poor Clive, your hair has gone quite white!
C.-C. [Holding out his hand.] I hope you had a pleasant journey down from London.
Lady Kitty. [Offering him her cheek.] You may kiss me, Clive.
C.-C. [Kissing her.] You don’t mind, Hughie?
Porteous. [With a grunt.] Ugh!
C.-C. [Going up to him cordially.] And how are you, my dear Hughie?
Porteous. Damned rheumatic if you want to know. Filthy climate you have in this country.