Exceedingly healthy, ma’am, for a stout person. OLIVE. I hope you look after Mr. Allingham thoroughly, all of you. QUAIFE. [_Dropping his voice, impressively._] We regard him as a trust, ma’am, if I may make use of the expression. OLIVE. [_Sharply._] A what? QUAIFE. A solemn trust, ma’am. OLIVE. [_Turning away._] Stuff and nonsense! QUAIFE. I beg pardon, ma’am, if I have gone too far. [JOHN _returns_. JOHN. [_Coming down the steps, a little flustered._] Quaife. QUAIFE. Sir? JOHN. Er—Mr. Shafto and Mr. Elphick don’t dine. QUAIFE. Not dine, sir! JOHN. They have to go on to Leatherhead at once. Is the boy ready to carry their bags to the station? QUAIFE. The boy can be worried till he’s ready, sir. JOHN. All right. [QUAIFE _withdraws_. JOHN _and_ OLIVE _now speak in whispers_. OLIVE. I don’t wish this. JOHN. They offered to go; they’d rather go. OLIVE. Have they heard much? JOHN. Er—next to nothing; a syllable or two when we were sitting there. That’s why Peter struck up a tune. [_Laughing a little wildly._] Ha, ha, ha! OLIVE. [_In the same way._] Ha, ha, ha! [_Glancing towards the door._] Shall I slip into the dining-room while they pass out? JOHN. Please don’t. They’re old friends of both of us; they understand perfectly—— OLIVE. [_Returning to the fireplace._] I’ll face it out, if you wish it. JOHN. [_Calling._] Denzil—Peter—— [SHAFTO _and_ ELPHICK _sedately emerge from the library, and descend the steps_. SHAFTO _bows to_ OLIVE. OLIVE. [_Advancing, shaking hands with him across the table, graciously._] Oh, Mr. Shafto, I am so sorry to upset everybody in this way—— SHAFTO. Not at all. I—ah—we—er—my father—at Leatherhead—— [ELPHICK, _encumbered with his banjo and the banjo-case, joins_ SHAFTO. JOHN _goes to the door_. OLIVE. [_Shaking hands with_ ELPHICK _across the table_.] Why should you lose your dinner? I have really finished all my—my business with my—with—Mr. Allingham. ELPHICK.