Comtesse [smiling divinely, and speaking with such a pretty accent]. 
I hope one is not in the way.  We were told we might wait.

Maggie [bravely climbing out of the basin].  Certainly—­I am sure if you will be so—­it is—­

[She knows that David and her father are very sorry for her.]

[A high voice is heard orating outside.]

Sybil [screwing her nose deliciously].  He is at it again, Auntie.

Comtesse.  Mon Dieu! [Like one begging pardon of the universe] It is Mr. Tenterden, you understand, making one more of his delightful speeches to the crowd.  Would you be so charming as to shut the door?

[This to David in such appeal that she is evidently making the petition of her life.  David saves her.]

Maggie [determined not to go under].  J’espere que vous—­trouvez—­ cette—­reunion—­interessante?

Comtesse.  Vous parlez francais?  Mais c’est charmant!  Voyons, causons un peu.  Racontez-moi tout de ce grand homme, toutes les choses merveilleuses qu’il a faites.

Maggie.  I—­I—­Je connais—­[Alas!]

Comtesse [naughtily].  Forgive me, Mademoiselle, I thought you spoke
French.

Sybil [who knows that David admires her shoulders].  How wicked of you, Auntie. [To Maggie] I assure you none of us can understand her when she gallops at that pace.

Maggie [crushed].  It doesn’t matter.  I will tell Mr. Shand that you are here.

Sybil [drawling].  Please don’t trouble him.  We are really only waiting till my brother recovers and can take us back to our hotel.

Maggie.  I’ll tell him.

[She is glad to disappear up the stair.]

Comtesse.  The lady seems distressed.  Is she a relation of Mr. Shand?

David.  Not for to say a relation.  She’s my sister.  Our name is Wylie.

[But granite quarries are nothing to them.]

Comtesse.  How do you do.  You are the committee man of Mr. Shand?

David.  No, just friends.

Comtesse [gaily to the basins].  Aha!  I know you.  Next, please!  Sybil, do you weigh yourself, or are you asleep?

[Lady Sybil has sunk indolently into a weighing-chair.]

Sybil.  Not quite, Auntie.

Comtesse [the mirror of la politesse].  Tell me all about Mr. Shand. 
Was it here that he—­picked up the pin?

David.  The pin?

Comtesse.  As I have read, a self-made man always begins by picking up a pin.  After that, as the memoirs say, his rise was rapid.

[David, however, is once more master of himself, and indeed has begun to tot up the cost of their garments.]

David.  It wasn’t a pin he picked up, my lady; it was L300.