Not particularly. [With the first real sign of feeling]
What I can't stand is being made a fool of before other people.
Ordinary friction one can put up with. But that----
SIR CHARLES. Gone out on purpose? What!
LADY DEDMOND. What was the trouble?
GEORGE. I told her this morning you were coming in to Bridge.
Appears she'd asked that fellow Malise, for music.
LADY DEDMOND. Without letting you know?
GEORGE. I believe she did tell me.
LADY DEDMOND. But surely----
GEORGE. I don't want to discuss it. There's never anything in
particular. We're all anyhow, as you know.
LADY DEDMOND. I see. [She looks shrewdly at her son] My dear,
I should be rather careful about him, I think.
SIR CHARLES. Who's that?
LADY DEDMOND. That Mr. Malise.
SIR CHARLES. Oh! That chap!
GEORGE. Clare isn't that sort.
LADY DEDMOND. I know. But she catches up notions very easily. I
think it's a great pity you ever came across him.
SIR CHARLES. Where did you pick him up?
GEORGE. Italy--this Spring--some place or other where they couldn't
speak English.
SIR CHARLES. Um! That's the worst of travellin'.
LADY DEDMOND. I think you ought to have dropped him. These literary
people---[Quietly] From exchanging ideas to something else, isn't
very far, George.
SIR CHARLES. We'll make him play Bridge. Do him good, if he's that
sort of fellow.
LADY DEDMOND. Is anyone else coming?
GEORGE. Reggie Huntingdon, and the Fullartons.
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