(Holding the footstool as a tray, he minces across the room like an
accomplished footman. The gods favour him, for just here LADY MARY
enters, and he holds out the footstool to her.)

Tea, my lady?

(LADY MARY is a beautiful creature of twenty-two, and is of a
natural hauteur which is at once the fury and the envy of her
sisters. If she chooses she can make you seem so insignificant that
you feel you might be swept away with the crumb-brush. She seldom
chooses, because of the trouble of preening herself as she does it;
she is usually content to show that you merely tire her eyes. She
often seems to be about to go to sleep in the middle of a remark:
there is quite a long and anxious pause, and then she continues,
like a clock that hesitates, bored in the middle of its strike.)

LADY MARY (arching her brows). It is only you, Ernest; I thought
there was some one here (and she also bestows herself on cushions).

ERNEST (a little piqued, and deserting the footstool). Had a very
tiring day also, Mary?

LADY MARY (yawning). Dreadfully. Been trying on engagement-rings all
the morning.

ERNEST (who is as fond of gossip as the oldest club member). What's
that? (To AGATHA.) Is it Brocklehurst?

(The energetic AGATHA nods.)