class="smcap">carnaby.   What is it that you call heart . . . sentimentally speaking?

sarah.   Any bud in the morning.

lord john.   That man Tatton's jokes are in shocking taste.

carnaby.   Tatton is honest.

lord john.   I'm much to blame for having won that bet.

carnaby.   Say no more.

lord john.   What can Miss Ann think of me?

sarah.   Don't ask her.

carnaby.   Innocency's opinions are invariably entertaining.

lord john.   Am I the first . . . ? I really beg your pardon.

george and ann come down the steps together.

carnaby.   Ann, what do you think . . . that is to say—and answer me truthfully . . . what at this moment is your inclination of mind towards my lord here?

ann.   I suppose I love him.

lord john.   I hope not.

ann.   I suppose I love you.

carnaby.   No . . no . . no . . no . . no . . no . . no.

sarah.   Hush, dear.

ann.   I'm afraid, papa, there's something very ill-bred in me.

Down the steps and into the midst of them comes john abud, carrying his tools, among other things a twist of bass. A young gardener, honest, clean and common.

abud.   [To carnaby.]   I ask pardon, sir.

carnaby. So early, Abud! . . . this is your territory. So late . . . Bed.

ann starts away up the steps, sarah is following her.

lord john.   Good-bye, Lady Cottesham.

At this ann stops for a moment, but then goes straight on.

sarah.   A pleasant journey.

sarah departs too.

george.   [Stretching himself.]   I'm roused.

carnaby.   [To abud.]   Leave your tools here for a few moments.

abud.   I will, sir.

abud leaves them, going along the terrace and out of sight.

carnaby.   My head is hot. Pardon me.

carnaby is sitting on the fountain rim; he dips his handkerchief in the water, and wrings it; then takes off his wig and binds the damp handkerchief round his head.

carnaby.   Wigs are most comfortable and old fashioned . . . unless you choose to be a cropped republican like my son.

george.   Nature!

carnaby.   Nature grows a beard, sir.

lord john.   I've seen Turks.

carnaby.   Horrible . . . horrible! Sit down, Carp.

lord john sits on the fountain rim, george begins to pace restlessly; he has been nursing the candlestick ever since tatton handed it to him.

carnaby.   George, you look damned ridiculous strutting arm-in-arm with that candlestick.

george.   I am ridiculous.

carnaby.   If you're cogitating over your wife and her expectations . . .

george paces up the steps and away. There is a pause.

carnaby.   D'ye tell stories . . . good ones?

lord john.   Sometimes.

carnaby.   There'll be this.

lord john.   I shan't.

carnaby.   Say no more. If I may so express myself, Carp, you have been taking us for granted.

lord john.   How wide awake you are! I'm not.

carnaby.   My head's cool. Shall I describe your conduct as an unpremeditated insult?

lord john.   Don't think anything of the sort.

carnaby.   There speaks your kind heart.

lord john.   Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me?

carnaby.   As may be.

lord john.   Why?

carnaby.   For the sake of appearances.

lord john.   Damn all appearances.

carnaby.   Now I'll lose my temper. Sir, you have compromised my daughter.

lord john.   Nonsense!

carnaby.   Villain! What's your next move?

For a moment lord john sits with knit brows.

lord john.   [Brutally.]   Mr. Leete, your name stinks.

carnaby.   My point of dis-ad-vantage!

lord john.   [Apologising.]   Please say what you like. I might have put my remark better.

carnaby.   I think not; the homely Saxon phrase is our literary dagger. Princelike, you ride away from Markswayde. Can I trust you not to stab a socially sick man? Why it's a duty you owe to society . . . to weed out . . . us.

lord john.   I'm not a coward. How?

carnaby.   A little laughter . . . in your exuberance of health.

lord john.   You may trust me not to tell tales.

carnaby.   Of what . . . of whom?

lord john.   Of here.

carnaby.   And what is there to tell of here?

lord john.   Nothing.

carnaby.   But how your promise betrays a capacity for good-natured invention!

lord john.   If I lie call me out.

carnaby.   I don't deal in sentiment. I can't afford to be talked about otherwise than as I choose to be. Already the Aunt Sally of the hour; having under pressure of circumstances resigned my office; dating my letters from the borders of the Chiltern Hundreds . . . I am a poor politician, sir, and I must live.

lord john.   I can't see that your family's infected . . . affected.

carnaby.   With a penniless girl you really should have been more circumspect.