least a gentleman. But I should be chaffed; and, frankly, I don't
like being chaffed.

THE LADY. Of course not. Who does? It would never do. Oh never,
never.

AUGUSTUS. I'm glad you see it in that light. And now, as a
measure of security, I shall put that list in my pocket. [He
begins searching vainly from drawer to drawer in the
writing-table.] Where on earth--? What the dickens did I--?
That's very odd: I--Where the deuce--? I thought I had put it in
the--Oh, here it is! No: this is Lucy's last letter.

THE LADY [elegiacally]. Lucy's Last Letter! What a title for a
picture play!

AUGUSTUS [delighted]. Yes: it is, isn't it? Lucy appeals to the
imagination like no other woman. By the way [handing over the
letter], I wonder could you read it for me? Lucy is a darling
girl; but I really can't read her writing. In London I get the
office typist to decipher it and make me a typed copy; but here
there is nobody.

THE LADY [puzzling over it]. It is really almost illegible. I
think the beginning is meant for "Dearest Gus."

AUGUSTUS [eagerly]. Yes: that is what she usually calls me.
Please go on.

THE LADY [trying to decipher it]. "What a"--"what a"--oh yes: