_Miss Bella._ I suppose she thought it was quite the fashion. _Mrs. Frimmely._ Who was that lady--Captain Byrton, do _you_ know?--who came in rustling all up the Church, and so scented! as if she'd stepped out of a perfumer's. _Byrton._ Don't know. Perhaps she _has_ stepped out of a perfumer's, and is an advertisement. _Happy Thought (for a perfumer)._--To send scented people about. Questions asked, _e.g._ Stranger (_sniffing_) goes up politely and inquires, "I beg a hundred pardons, but what scent--what delicious scent are you wearing?" Then the lady replies, "Don't mention it, Ma'am. It's (whatever the name is), and there's the card." And gives her the perfumer's address. _Miss Adelaide._ I thought Miss Vyner rather prettily dressed. _Mrs. Frimmely._ Oh! but _did_ you see her gloves! Such a fit! _Miss Bella._ And such a colour! _Cazell._ I wonder who that bald-headed man in front of me was? There was a collection, and he put a sovereign into the plate. _Chilvern._ I'm always unlucky in that way. Whenever I go to Church there's always a collection. _Captain Byrton._ Yes. You kept the man waiting at the pew door for at least two minutes, while you fumbled in all your pockets. Anyone have any cheese? _Chilvern._ I knew I'd got a shilling somewhere--but it was a fourpenny-bit after all. _Miss Medford._ How very disturbing it must be for the clergyman, when a child persists in crying at intervals all through the sermon. _Mrs. Frimmely._ Yes, little things like that oughtn't to be brought to church; at least, not to sit out sermons. _Boodels_ (_with some vague recollection of the baptismal service_). But you forget, Mrs. Frimmely, godfathers and godmothers promise to bring children to _hear_ sermons. That's one of the three things they vow in the child's name. _Mrs. Frimmely._ Really? (_seeing no help for it short of a second reformation, or disestablishment_). Well it's a great pity. _Milburd_ (_to Byrton_). I see by the _Field_ to-day, that _Lysander_ is going up for the Derby. _Byrton._ He's nowhere. _Corkscrew's_ at a hundred to fifteen. _Mrs. Frimmely._ I was right last year. Wasn't I? (_To her husband._) _Frimmely._ Yes: for once. (_Mrs. Frimmely tosses her head._) _Soames_ (_the Professor of Scientific Economy_). Betting can be reduced to the certainty of a mathematical calculation. _Cazell_ (_to him_). I tell you what _you_ ought to do, then. _Soames_ (_innocently_). What? _Cazell._ Make your fortune. (_A titter. Pause._) _Medford._ I see by the _Musical Times_ that we're to have the new prima donna, Stellafanti, at Covent Garden. _Madame._ We heard her years ago at Naples. (_Interest in her diminishes._) _Mrs. Frimmely._ We _must_ get up some theatricals here. _Misses Adelaide and Bella._ Oh yes, _do let's_! _Miss Medford._ I think they _are_ such fun. _Medford._ We could do something musical, easily.