is—although, of course, it’s very, very wrong.

Sir G. Why wrong?

Rose. Well, you see, someone else is married; and of course she oughtn’t to care anything about the nice young man.

Sir G. Although he has so lovely a moustache.

Rose. But she does—which is wicked—but it’s very interesting.

Sir G. (to Lady Carlyon) What did you think of it, my dear?

Lady C. It is a painful subject.

Rose. Aunt Bell didn’t like it; but she took it all so seriously. If it were real, it would be very sad; but after all what is it but a play? Besides, it all takes place in Paris: nobody pretends that such things happen here.

Lady C. Of course. (quickly)

Philip. Of course. (quickly)

Sir G. (ironically) Of course. (takes up the third brief on his right—and plays with it)

Rose. I read a notice of the piece this morning, and I quite agreed with it.

Sir G. What did the notice say?

Rose. It said it was “an admirable play, but that an English version of it was impossible.”

Sir G. Why so?

Rose. “Because”—how did it put it?—oh, “because these vivid but unwholesome pictures of French life have happily no”—something—I forget exactly what—“to the chaste beauty of our English homes.” I can’t remember the precise words, but I know the criticism made me long to see the play.

Sir G. (putting the brief back in its place, after he sees it has caught Philip’s eyes) Of course it filled the theatre?

Lady C. The house was crowded, and the atmosphere was insupportable. (smells bouquet)

Sir G. No doubt; if you were bending all night long over those sickly flowers. (crosses to her—she rises) Give them to me. (takes bouquet) Why, they are almost withered.

(comes, C., with bouquet)

Lady C. They were fresh yesterday.

Sir G. (C.) To-days and yesterdays are different things.

(holds the bouquet, head downwards)

Rose. It wasn’t the flowers, though. Aunt Bell didn’t like the play

Philip. It isn’t everybody who admires French plays.

Sir G. (to Lady Carlyon) What, were you scandalised? You must know, Philip—you do know, of course—Lady Carlyon is a dragon in her way—the very pink and pattern of propriety. Now, I’ll be bound, she didn’t like the moral of that comedy.

Lady C. Had it a moral?

Sir G. Certainly! and one men would do well to lay to heart. If that young man——

Rose. The one with the moustache?

Sir G. Had buried his first love when it was dead, he wouldn’t have been haunted by its ghost. When passion is burnt out, sweep the hearth clean, and clear away the ash, before you set alight another fire. It is a law of life. Old things give place to new. The loves of yesterday are like these faded flowers, fit only to be cast into the flames. (flings bouquet into fire) That is the moral: and I call it excellent. (sits, C., and looks at Philip)

Lady C. (aside) He doesn’t speak to me. Am I a faded flower? (sits, L.)

Rose. Very good, Uncle George. That ought to get the verdict. (leaning upon his shoulder)

Sir G. Let us hope it will. (looking at Philip)

Rose. If all your speeches are as nice as that, I must come down to court and hear you plead.

Sir G. I shall be proud to have so fair an auditor. But we’ve not told your aunt the news.

Lady C. What news?

Sir G. Philip informs me, much to my surprise——

Philip. (rising) Sir George! I have considered your advice, and have resolved to act on it. Till I have done so it would perhaps be better——

Sir G. Not to say anything? I will respect your confidence.

Lady C. You have some private matter to discuss. Shall we go? (rises)

Sir G. We will go, if you will excuse us. (rises)

Lady C. Certainly.

Sir G. (to Philip) Come with me. (Exit, L.)

Philip. In case I don’t see you again, Miss Dalrymple, good night. (bows)

Rose. Good evening, Mr. Graham. (she curtseys ceremoniously)

Lady C. (aside) What can they have to talk about—those two? (reflectively)

Philip comes, L., and stands before Lady Carlyon.

Philip. Good night. (puts out his hand)

Lady C. (giving him her hand slowly, which he takes and drops) Good night. (exit Philip, quickly, L.) How glad he is to go! (drops down on seat again, L., leaning her head back, pressed between her hands—slight pause—Rose comes down)

Rose. Is anything the matter?

Lady C. I beg your pardon, dear. (rises and puts her arm round Rose and leads her to the lounge) I don’t feel very well to-night.

Rose. Sit down and let me talk to you. A chat will cheer you perhaps.

Lady Carlyon sits upon the lounge before the fire—Rose kneels beside her, on the further side from audience, so that both their faces are visible.

Lady C. I am so glad to have you with me, Rose. I wish I had you always. I am very lonely.

Rose. You have Uncle George!

Lady C. Sir George is always busy, and I do not care to interrupt him.

Rose. But he has some leisure.

Lady C. I never knew him to have any, since I was his wife. It’s not his fault. A man in his position has so much to do. When he is not in court, he is in Parliament.

Rose. He is at home to-night.

Lady C. And when he is at home, he is at work.

Rose. Poor lonely aunt! (clasps her arms round her) I told you at the theatre how like you were to Madame de Saint Géran in the play.

Lady C.