PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.
LORD GORING. [Looking at himself in the glass.] Don't think I quite
like this buttonhole, Phipps. Makes me look a little too old. Makes
me almost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps?
PHIPPS. I don't observe any alteration in your lordship's
appearance.
LORD GORING. You don't, Phipps?
PHIPPS. No, my lord.
LORD GORING. I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial
buttonhole, Phipps, on Thursday evenings.
PHIPPS. I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in
her family lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality
your lordship complains of in the buttonhole.
LORD GORING. Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England
- they are always losing their relations.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect.
LORD GORING. [Turns round and looks at him. PHIPPS remains
impassive.] Hum! Any letters, Phipps?
PHIPPS. Three, my lord. [Hands letters on a salver.]
LORD GORING. [Takes letters.] Want my cab round in twenty minutes.
PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [Goes towards door.]
LORD GORING. [Holds up letter in pink envelope.] Ahem! Phipps,
when did this letter arrive?
PHIPPS. It was brought by hand just after your lordship went to the
club.
LORD GORING. That will do. [Exit PHIPPS.] Lady Chiltern's
handwriting on Lady Chiltern's pink notepaper.
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