—have patience: your pretty sonnet will claim its own share of admiration presently. (Going with great complacency from one person to another.) I hope you like him?—I hope you like the speech. Very good; all very clever. At least, I am told so—it does not become me to speak.
LADY SHREWDLY (aside, pulling his sleeve).
Have a care: you'll discover all with that false modesty.
LORD WORRYMORE (aside toLady Shrewdly).
No, no! I'm cunning; I manage very well. (Aloud.) My Lady Worrymore, what did you think of that part about the Ploughman and the Lark, and the waving of the poppies?—very fine, was it not? No, no! I don't mean fine, neither; rather too fanciful.
LADY WORRYMORE.
You are a cold critic, my Lord. It requires a kindred spirit with the writer's to admire such exquisite imagery.
LORD WORRYMORE.
Very right; so it does, and you are akin to him, dear wife.
