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! [_Over her shoulder._] _You_ take a friendly hint. If your predecessor had Sir Randle'd and Lady Filson'd them more frequently, you wouldn't be standing in his shoes at this moment. WESTRIP. [_In the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets._] Why _was_ Sir Randle knighted, do you know? MISS TRACER. Built a large drill-hall for the Territorials near his country place at Bramsfold. WESTRIP. [_Innocently._] Oh, is he interested in the Territorials? MISS TRACER. [_Partly raising herself._] Interested in the Territorials! How simple you are! He cares as much for the Territorials as I care for snakes. [_Kneeling upon the settee and resting her arms on the back of it, talkatively._] The drill-hall was _her_ notion; she engineered the whole affair. WESTRIP. [_Opening his eyes wider and wider._] Lady Filson? MISS TRACER. [_Nodding._] Her maid's my informant. A few years ago he was growing frightfully down-in-the-mouth. He fancied he'd got stuck, as it were--that everybody was getting an honour but himself. So the blessed shanty was run up in a devil of a hurry--excuse my Greek; and as soon as it was dry, Mrs. Filson, as she then was, wrote to some big-wig or other--without her husband's knowledge, she explained--and called attention to the service he'd rendered to the cause of patriotism. Lambert saw the draft of the letter on her mistress's dressing-table. [_Shaking with laughter._] Ho, ho, ho! And what d'ye think? WESTRIP. W-well? MISS TRACER. The corrections were in _his_ handwriting! WESTRIP. [_Shocked._] In Sir Randle's----! MISS TRACER. [_Jumping up._] Phiou! I'm fearfully indiscreet. [_Going to_ WESTRIP _and touching his coat-sleeve._] Between ourselves, Mr. Westrip! WESTRIP. [_Moving to the round table._] Quite--quite. MISS TRACER.