GREGORY. Impossible: it's only our guilty fancy.

A WOMAN'S VOICE. This is the way to the lounge. I know it.

GREGORY. Great Heaven! we're both mad. That's my wife's voice.

MRS. JUNO. Ridiculous! Oh! we're dreaming it all. We [the door
opens; and Sibthorpe Juno appears in the roseate glow of the
corridor (which happens to be papered in pink) with Mrs. Lunn,
like Tannhauser in the hill of Venus. He is a fussily energetic
little man, who gives himself an air of gallantry by greasing the
points of his moustaches and dressing very carefully. She is a
tall, imposing, handsome, languid woman, with flashing dark eyes
and long lashes. They make for the chesterfield, not noticing the
two palpitating figures blotted against the walls in the gloom on
either side. The figures flit away noiselessly through the window
and disappear].

JUNO [officiously] Ah: here we are. [He leads the way to the
sofa]. Sit down: I'm sure you're tired. [She sits]. That's right.
[He sits beside her on her left]. Hullo! [he rises] this sofa's
quite warm.

MRS. LUNN [bored] Is it? I don't notice it. I expect the sun's
been on it.

JUNO. I felt it quite distinctly: I'm more thinly clad than you.
[He sits down again, and proceeds, with a sigh of satisfaction].
What a relief to get off the ship and have a private room! That's