Miss D. Oh, do be sympathetic, Minnie! I'm sure he does. At least I would be sure if he wasn't always riding with that odious Mrs. Hagan. Miss T. I suppose so. How does one manage to dance through one's heels first? Look at this--isn't it shameful? (Spreads stocking--heel on open hand for inspection.) Miss D. Never mind that! You can't mend it. Help me with this hateful bodice. I've run the string so, and I've run the string so, and I can't make the fulness come right. Where would you put this? (Waves lilies of the valley.) Miss T. As high up on the shoulder as possible. Miss D. Am I quite tall enough? I know it makes May Older look lopsided. Miss T. Yes, but May hasn't your shoulders. Hers are like a hock-bottle. BEARER. (Rapping at door.) Captain Sahib aya. Miss D. (Jumping up wildly, and hunting for bodice, which she has discarded owing to the heat of the day.) Captain Sahib! What Captain Sahib? Oh, good gracious, and I'm only half dressed! Well, I sha'n't bother. Miss T. (Calmly.) You needn't. It isn't for us. That's Captain Gadsby. He is going for a ride with Mamma. He generally comes five days out of the seven. AGONIZED VOICE. (Prom an inner apartment.) Minnie, run out and give Captain Gadsby some tea, and tell him I shall be ready in ten minutes; and, O Minnie, come to me an instant, there's a dear girl! Miss T. Oh, bother! (Aloud.) Very well, Mamma. Exit, and reappears, after five minutes, flushed, and rubbing her fingers. Miss D. You look pink. What has happened? Miss T. (In a stage whisper.) A twenty-four-inch waist, and she won't let it out. Where are my bangles? (Rummager on the toilet-table, and dabs at her hair with a brush in the interval.) Miss D. Who is this Captain Gadsby? I don't think I've met him. Miss T. You must have. He belongs to the Harrar set. I've danced with him, but I've never talked to him. He's a big yellow man, just like a newly-hatched chicken, with an enormous moustache. He walks like this (imitates Cavalry swagger), and he goes “Ha--Hmmm!” deep down in his throat when he can't think of anything to say. Mamma likes him. I don't. Miss D. (Abstractedly.) Does he wax that moustache? Miss T. (Busy with Powder-puff.) Yes, I think so. Why? Miss D. (Bending over the bodice and sewing furiously.) Oh, nothing--only--Miss T. (Sternly.) Only what? Out with it, Emma. Miss D. Well, May Olger--she's engaged to Mr. Charteris, you know--said--Promise you won't repeat this? Miss T. Yes, I promise. What did she say? Miss D. That--that being kissed (with a rush) with a man who didn't wax his moustache was--like eating an egg without salt. Miss T. (At her full height, with crushing scorn.) May Olger is a horrid, nasty Thing, and you can tell her I said so. I'm glad she doesn't belong to my set--I must go and feed this man! Do I look presentable? Miss D. Yes, perfectly. Be quick and hand him over to your Mother, and then we can talk. I shall listen at the door to hear what you say to him.