You have Albert.

Viola. You know that Albert is not a romance.

Muriel. Once——

Viola. Ah, when everyone opposed our marriage. I married him for love, and because he was poor and "unsuitable." How could I know that his uncle would die and leave him money and a country house? Everything has turned out so well! It is rather hard to have made "a good match," as they say, without intending it. Of course, I never reproach him.

Muriel. No; you have been very nice about it.

Viola. Albert is perfectly happy, playing at being a country gentleman. He was so amazed to find there were real ducks and fowls in the country—and buttercups! He tells me everything. He boasts we tell each other everything. Oh! I should so like to have some little thing to conceal from him—some secret, just for fun! Of course I should tell him all about it afterwards, you know.

Muriel. I am sure you would, dear. You have dropped your handkerchief.

(Muriel picks up handkerchief, book, and paper-knife, and gives them to Viola.)

Viola. Dear Muriel, it is so nice to have you here. You are so calm, and soothing, and decorative, and you never take anyone away from anyone else!

Muriel. I think I have been rather unfortunate lately, Viola. No one seems to like me but middle-aged married men—often, too, with whiskers!

Viola. You mean poor Mr. Averidge? He has been married so long that he has forgotten all about it. To-night Claude Mignon is coming to stay with us. He is the most accomplished idiot in London. He sings, plays, paints, plays games, flirts—I think his flirting, though, has rather gone off. It is getting mechanical. By the way, have you an ideal, Muriel? I wonder what is your ideal?

Muriel (promptly and cheerfully). A man past his first youth, who has suffered; with iron-grey hair and weary eyes, who knows everything about life and could guide me, and would do exactly what I told him.

Viola. And mine is a young man of genius, just beginning life, with the world before him, who would look up to me as an inspiration—a guiding star!

Muriel. You have dropped your handkerchief again, Viola. Who is this coming out?

Viola. It is only Dr. Roberts. He has been to see Jane, the housemaid. She has been rather ill.

Muriel. I suppose she had a housemaid's knee.

Viola. You are quite wrong. She had writer's cramp, poor thing!

Muriel. How absurd, Viola! How are you, Dr. Roberts!

[Dr. Roberts has iron-grey hair and dark eyes. As he joins them Muriel leans down to pat a dog with all the graceful self-consciousness of youth. Dr. Roberts looks at Viola admiringly.

Viola. I hope poor Jane is better?

Dr. Roberts. Oh yes; she is quite out of the wood now, Mrs. Travers. In fact, I don't think I need see her anymore. (Muriel looks up.) Perhaps though, I had better just look in—say—on Thursday?

Viola. Do; and stay and have some tennis.

[Dr. Roberts accepts with evident enthusiasm, and takes leave with obvious regret.

Muriel (watching him drive away). Dr. Roberts admires you dreadfully. Is that a romance?

Viola. For him perhaps—not for me! And it isn't a mystery!

[A telegram is brought in.

Viola. Oh, how delightful! Alan Roy, the wonderful boy harpist, is coming down! He's coming by the early train! He'll be here directly!

Muriel. You never told me you had asked him! I suppose you forgot it—or remembered it. Doesn't he profess to be even younger than he is? I mean, when he was four, didn't he say he was three? I wonder if he'll come down in a sailor-suit.

Viola. He's quite nineteen. Here are those tiresome Averidges again! I thought I got rid of them for a long drive. (Aloud.) Ah! Here is dear Mr. Averidge!

Mr. Averidge (ponderously, to Muriel). And how is Miss Vane to-day? Looking as she always does, like a rose in June.

Muriel (coldly). Yes, Mr. Averidge?

Viola (to Mrs. Averidge and Albert, who are coming up the steps of the terrace). Alan Roy is coming down, the Alan Roy. He will be here directly.

Albert. All right, though I don't approve of child artists. Poor little chap!

Viola. He is very nearly quite grown up, Albert! He has golden hair and any amount of usage du monde.

Muriel. Albert will call it cheek—I daresay!

Mrs. Averidge. He is most amusing. I met him at Lady Bayswater's. He looks quite an angel playing the harp.

Albert. I hope he'll bring his halo in a hat-box. What is that text about "Young lions do lack——"

Muriel. Oh, Albert!