TRANTO. Yes. Auntie Joe's. I've just sent her a telephone message to say
I'm ill and confined to the house.

HILDEGARDE. Which house?

TRANTO. I didn't specify any particular house.

HILDEGARDE. And are you ill?

TRANTO. I am not.... To get back to the realm of fact, when I read
Sampson Straight's article about the degradation of honours this
afternoon--

HILDEGARDE. Didn't you read it before you published it?

TRANTO. No. I had to rush off and confront the Medical Board at 9 a.m. I
felt certain the article would be all right.

HILDEGARDE. And it wasn't all right.

TRANTO (_positively_). Perfectly all right.

HILDEGARDE. You don't seem quite sure. Are we still in the realm of
fact, or are we slipping over the frontier?

TRANTO. The article was perfectly all right. It rattled off from
beginning to end like a machine-gun, and must have caused enormous
casualties. Only I thought Auntie Joe might be one of the casualties. I
thought it might put her out of action as a hostess for a week or so.