Hyacinth—She loathes him!
Dominica—Dear, in my sainted husband's library there is a curiosity,—a little French book which proves quite conclusively that Napoleon never lived. I'll send it to you. Read it. It is most comforting. . . . There . . . dearest. . . . So that was your tragic difficulty.
Beatrice—Yes, you clever, practical darling.
Dominica—Poor little tutor! Now he is beginning to interest me. What is to become of him?
Beatrice—He is packing. Oh, he feels that, after what has happened, he cannot stay on here another moment.
Dominica—He is quite right. But are you letting him go like that?
Beatrice—Well, you see, my dear . . . he is now . . . the poor fellow is now like an exploded cartridge.
Dominica—One must be very careful with cartridges. It is just such people who become writers of memoirs, American lecturers or publicists for the opposition party. One cannot be too careful. I have had painful experiences in such matters. Tutors, adjutants. . . . I shall speak to him myself.
Beatrice—Thank you, you clever darling.
Dominica—Had I been here I should have warned you in the first place not to trifle with a tutor.
