IMOGEN.

[To DRUMDURRIS.] Keith! Oh, Keith, do me a favour!

EARL OF DRUMDURRIS.

Certainly.

IMOGEN.

Offer my poor cousin, Mr. White, some post in or about Drumdurris Castle.

EARL OF DRUMDURRIS.

What kind of post?

IMOGEN.

Some wretched, inferior position in which he needn't be very polite.

EARL OF DRUMDURRIS.

What will he say if I propose such a thing?

IMOGEN.

He'll be extremely rude, I think. But, oh, I shall be so grateful, Keith.

[LADY TWOMBLEY enters.]

LADY TWOMBLEY.

Imogen! Child, what has happened to your head?

IMOGEN.

I--I've been playing marbles, mamma.

LADY TWOMBLEY.

Not on your head?

IMOGEN.

No, mamma, upon the floor.

LADY TWOMBLEY.

With Sir Colin?

IMOGEN.

Certainly not, mamma; I don't know Sir Colin nearly well enough to sit with him upon the floor. [Putting up her hair.]

LADY TWOMBLEY.

Darling, has Sir Colin made any remark of an interesting nature?

IMOGEN.

No--he stammered a little, and, while my back was turned, he ran away after his mammy.

LADY TWOMBLEY.

[To herself.] I knew it! Why didn't we lock him in till he had provided for my poor child's future?

[PROBYN enters.]

PROBYN.

Mrs. Gayl.u.s.tre is here, my lady.

IMOGEN.

Oh, that person!

[IMOGEN s.n.a.t.c.hes up the box of playthings and hurries out. MRS.

GAYl.u.s.tRE enters. PROBYN retires.]

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

[To everybody.] How d'ye do? How d'ye do? Lord Drumdurris, charmed to see you. How are you, Brooke?

BROOKE TWOMBLEY.

[To himself.] Brooke! Impudence!

MRS. GAYl.u.s.tRE.

You look bilious, Kate.

[She kisses LADY TWOMBLEY, who sinks on to the settee.]

BROOKE TWOMBLEY.

[To DRUMDURRIS.] It's too bad of the Mater! Fancy a fellow making a chum of his tailor--what?

EARL OF DRUMDURRIS.

Mr. White, may I speak to you?