MISS TRACER.

You don't believe he has ever really known half the people he mourns,
do you?

WESTRIP.

Not known them!

MISS TRACER.

[_Crossing to the writing-table and laying the press-cuttings upon
it._] Guileless youth! Wait till you've breathed the air of this
establishment a little longer.

WESTRIP.

[_Puzzled._] But if he hasn't known them, why should he----?

MISS TRACER.

For the sake of figuring among a lot of prominent personages, of
course.

WESTRIP.

[_Incredulously._] Oh, Miss Tracer!

MISS TRACER.

Gospel. [_Taking up the press-cuttings and looking through them._] Many
are the sympathetic souls who are grief-stricken in these days for the
same reason. Here we are! [_Reading from a cutting._] Late Viscount
Petersfield ... memorial service ... St. Margaret's, Westminster ...
among those present ... h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle Filson ... wreaths
were sent by ... h'm, h'm, h'm, h'm ... Sir Randle and Lady Filson!
[_Replacing the press-cuttings upon the table._] Ha, ha, ha, ha--!
[_Checking herself and turning to_ WESTRIP.] Our conversation is
strictly private, Mr. Westrip?

WESTRIP.

[_Somewhat disturbed._] Strictly.

MISS TRACER.

[_Smiling at him winningly and moving to the settee before the
fireplace._] You're a nice boy; I'm sure you wouldn't make mischief.
[_Sinking on to the settee with a yawn._] Oh! Oh, I'm so weary!

WESTRIP.

Weary? Before you've begun your morning's work!

MISS TRACER.

_Before_ I've begun it! I had a parade downstairs in the servants' hall
at a quarter-to-ten.

WESTRIP.

Parade?

MISS TRACER.

We've two new women in the house who are perfect idiots. They _can't_
remember to say "yes, my lady" and "no, my lady" and "very good, my
lady" whenever Lady Filson speaks to them. One of them actually
addressed her yesterday as "ma'am." I wonder the roof didn't fall in.

WESTRIP.

[_Meditatively._] I've noticed that Sir Randle and Lady Filson have a
great relish for being Sir'd and Lady'd.

MISS TRACER.

Ha, ha! Rather