_Phill._ (_injured_). Oh, my lady, indeed he wasn't a _man_! But there was nothing serious between us--at least, on _my_ side--though he certainly did go on in a very sentimental way himself. However, he's left the Court by now, that's _one_ comfort! (_To herself._) I wish now I'd said nothing about him to JEM. If he was to get asking questions downstairs----He always _was_ given to jealousy--reason or none!
_Lady Rhoda_ (_outside_). MAISIE, may I come in? if you've done your hair, and sent away your maid. (_She enters._) Ah, I see you haven't.
_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!
_Lady Rhoda_ (_crossing her feet on the fender_). Well, we can't complain of havin' had a dull evenin', _can_ we?
[Illustration: "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.
_Lady Rhoda._ Then they should stay at home. Just see what a hopeless muddle he's got us all into! I declare I feel as if anybody might turn into somebody else on the smallest provocation after this. I _know_ poor VIVIEN SPELWANE will be worryin' her pillows like rats most of the night, and I rather fancy it will be a close time for poets with your dear mother, MAISIE, for some time to come. All this silly little man's fault!