see too clearly.

Kathryn (with a relieved sigh). Oh, that's all right then. (She disappears. Gloria and Dill are left quite, quite alone.)

Dill (after a pause). Your debut—and that about the Convolvulus—was very sweet, my dear.

Gloria. Thank you, Dill.

Dill. On the contrary, Mr. Hargrave's entrance failed to come up to expectations.

Gloria (sternly). No, Dill. But men never do, and Mr. Hargrave can render us a distinct service later. You forget that we must be married.

Dill. Is it really to come true, love?

Gloria. Of course, Dill. And now are you quite ready?

Dill. Quite, my love.

Gloria. Are your hands clean?

Dill (taking hers in his). No man's could be cleaner.

Gloria (smoothing his hair). I don't think you brushed your hair, Dill.

Dill. It's a pleasure to hear you say that, dear. I have always noticed that when men and women tire of each other they become very careless of each other's appearance.

Gloria. Then you do love me, Dill?

Dill. Oh, my love. (Embraces her passionately.)

Curtain.

  ACT II

Scene—Peter Hargrave's apartment. Door R. Exit L. Narrow hall U. R. with door L. An old-fashioned bell rope overhead; double desk, two chairs, and a Venus on the wall. Enter Jack escorting Hargrave by the arm.

Jack. If it were my own father, he could not have acted in a more gentlemanly manner. Your every movement marks you the gentleman. You have a gentleman's happy faculty for doing the wrong thing at the right time. I have always feared that some day I should meet a gentleman, but never, never suspected you. (They come down stage together.) Dill said his brother was a gentleman, but no one believes Dill, no one but myself. (Hargrave is doing his best to overlook Jack's frivolity.)

Hargrave. I must confess that I am glad my brother has been found out. What did you say his social standing was?

Jack (using Venus as a mirror). A butler, father. The standing is on a par with petty theft.

Hargrave. A butler! A thief!

Jack. Yes, a menial, father, a form of man. It owes its origin to menus.

Hargrave (rubbing his hands). I haven't told you before, my boy, and an announcement of this kind should really proceed from the young lady in question, but I believe that I am engaged.

Jack. Of course, you are, father. I'm attending to that.

Hargrave. Then Kathryn has told you?

Jack. Kathryn? This is the last straw, father. (Pulls quill pen from hat.) You shall be unfrocked, sir. (Sits down at desk.) I'll write a brief to the Archbishop to that effect. (Does not write.) I had long seen the advisability of such action, and had you been my real father would have attended to it long ago. (Hargrave glares at him.) When would you be unfrocked, father? In the morning? I'll respect any preference you see fit to name. Well, some morning! Most any morning will do. Letters have to travel like other people. They would not be well read otherwise.

Hargrave (at other end of the desk). You shall go to jail, sir. (Writes furiously.) Or maybe there are many charitable organizations only too glad to take you off my hands.

Jack. That remark was cowardly, Mr. Kent. You know very well that I am not rich enough to go to jail, and that both influence and position are required today for a jail career. (Snatches pen away.) For the past fortnight a jail has been my prime ambition. I have a genius for jails, and I need not tell you, Mr. Kent, that I need rest and affection.

Hargrave. Hargrave, Jack, Hargrave! And until tonight I must be known by no other name.

Jack. Please don't call me Jack, father. It sounds so unartificial. And to think that I who have always perceived the immense superiority of a number, should have been endowed with a monosyllable like that.

Hargrave. You had a number once, Jack.

Jack. A number! Is it true, father, or do my ears deceive me?

Hargrave (piously). I shall endeavor to spare your feelings as far as possible. A young man tasting too soon of the bitter fruits of life is apt to form a very wrong impression of this world of ours, and the inhabitants above it.

Jack. Oh, people are above everything in this world, father, and in the next too, I guess. But have I got a number?

Hargrave. How little you understand! You think that I refer to some social distinction, some news of your misguided parents. I refer to your real parents, Jack. An immoral longing I have never had.

Jack. Oh, everyone's as moral and immoral as he knows how to be, father.

Hargrave (expostulating). Jack! Jack!

Jack. How often must I tell you not to call me that, sir. Even John were better.

Hargrave (devoutly). It was no desire of mine to dig up the past, to unearth that which belonged rightly to the dead. Your conduct, however, has made the telling inevitable.

Jack. A telling speech, father. But tell me, have I got a number?

Hargrave (bitterly). You have, sir! You have! Allow me to tell you, sir, that you once were, and I have no doubt still are, undutifully registered at Crapsey Hall, Canterbury, under the charge of an abominable brute by that name, as John—plain John, Disciple No. 1, in an evil establishment known as a School for Socialism.

Jack (embracing him wildly). Father! I forgive you! Everything! (Kissing him.) Turn the other cheek, father. Oh, such luck, such luck! I'll return at once. My fortune and future are assured now. (Tosses his cap into the air.) And to think that of all numbers, I should have been No. 1.

Hargrave (kindly). You are surely an odd number, Jack.

Jack. Dear Crapsey! I wonder how he came to give me that particular number, or if he knew that I thought of no one but myself?

Hargrave. I stole you from that heathen Hell—

Jack. Yes, yes, father.

Hargrave. And you were the first, last, and only little devil ever entered there.

Jack (crushed). Oh!

Hargrave. So come, let's to more serious things. You said my brother was getting married?

Jack. It's a man's malady, father.

Hargrave (suddenly). Jack! I have a thought! (Steps forward.) Could it be possible?

Jack. You slight yourself, father.

Hargrave (meditating). He is not marrying out of love. No! My brother would never do that. He must