Mrs. Denham.

Poor silly little flirt! I'm very sorry.

Fitzgerald.

(_rubbing his hands_) I'm--I'm awfully glad. It'll be the saving of
poor Smith. Though he's awfully cut up about it, of course.

Denham.

Did she run away with--any one in particular?

Fitzgerald.

A Captain Crosby or Cosby, or something. He's in some horse
regiment, the cavalry or something. He's--he's an awful scamp, a
blackleg and all that, but an awfully nice fellow. I met him at
Smith's the other day, and they--they--they were carrying on all the
time under poor little Smith's nose. (_He saunters absently to the
easel and looks at the picture._) The picture--eh? It's--it's
awfully good, you know--an advance on your last.

(_During this speech Denham also goes to the easel._)

Mrs. Denham.

Don't you think so?

Fitzgerald.