Theodore was late as usual.

COLONEL.

Only ten minutes, Caroline; but, as you know, time, tide, and your aunt wait for no man.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Now, Gerald, let me look at you. Your face to the light, please.

[_GERALD stands for inspection. She takes a long look through her eye-gla.s.s._] I don't like that necktie.

GERALD [_smiling and bowing_].

It shall be changed to-morrow, aunt.

LADY WARGRAVE.

To-day. [_GERALD bows. She takes another look._] That will do, Gerald.

[_GERALD salutes. She drops her gla.s.ses._

COLONEL.

Stand at ease! Dismiss!

LADY WARGRAVE.

Theodore, this is not a barracks!

COLONEL.

True. [_Bows._] Peccavi!

LADY WARGRAVE [_addressing GERALD_].

I need hardly say with what pleasure I have followed your career at Oxford. It is worthy of a Cazenove.

COLONEL.

Brilliant--magnificent!

LADY WARGRAVE.

It is worthy of a Cazenove; that is all.

[_COLONEL subsides, bowing._

GERALD.

Yes, aunt, I flatter myself----

LADY WARGRAVE.

Don't do that. You did your duty. Nothing more.

GERALD.

By the way, did you receive my poem?

LADY WARGRAVE.

Poem?

GERALD.

That won the Newdigate. I sent you a copy--to Rome.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Ah, I remember; I received the doc.u.ment. Tell me, were there many compet.i.tors?

GERALD.

A dozen or so.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Is it possible that Oxford can produce eleven worse poems than yours?

GERALD.

My dear aunt!

[_COLONEL turns aside, chuckling, and finds himself face to face with MARGERY, laughing; both become suddenly serious._

MRS. SYLVESTER [_advancing_].

It is a work of genius--none but a true poet----

LADY WARGRAVE [_half rising. MARGERY steps forward to help her_].

I ask your pardon. Gerald, you haven't introduced me!

GERALD.

Forgive me, Mrs. Sylvester--forgive me, aunt, but in the excitement of seeing you----

LADY WARGRAVE.

Sylvester!