PERCY [_smiling_].

Pettigrew!

[_Turns off._

GERALD.

One of my Oxford friends.

LADY WARGRAVE [_aside to him_].

One of those who are always at Oxford?

VICTORIA.

His "Supercilia" are quoted everywhere.

LADY WARGRAVE.

His----?

GERALD.

A column Percy does for "The Corset."

VICTORIA.

A newspaper devoted to our cause.

GERALD.

"The Corset" is Percy's organ.

LADY WARGRAVE.

Ah, his rattle!

SERVANT.

Dr. Bevan.

DR. BEVAN [_shakes hands with LADY WARGRAVE_].

I hope I am not late; but I was detained at the hospital. Most interesting case, unhappily unfit for publication.

SERVANT.

Miss Bethune.

[_Exit SERVANT._

Enter ENID.

COLONEL [_to SYLVESTER_].

The best of 'em! [_ENID shakes hands with LADY WARGRAVE._] Ah, what a pity, what a pity, Sylvester!

SYLVESTER.

What is a pity, Colonel?

COLONEL.

That such a figure should be wasted!

SYLVESTER [_in a matter of course voice_].

I prefer Mrs. Cazenove's.

[_Turns off. COLONEL eyes him curiously. The other Guests should be so arranged that each man is surrounded by a little group of women._

PERCY [_the centre of one group, lolling lazily, always smiling with self-complacency, suddenly sits up and shivers_].

No, no! don't mention it. It bores me so.

[_Shivers._

CHORUS.

And me!

[_All shiver._

VICTORIA.

The stage has ever been Woman's greatest foe.

GUEST.

For centuries it has shirked the s.e.xual problem.

SYLVESTER [_who has strolled up_].

But doesn't it show signs of repentance?

PERCY.

The theatre is dying.