CARNABY. Your son should have had my name, sir.

GEORGE. I know the rule . . as I have my grandfather's which I take no pride in.

SARAH. George!

GEORGE. Not to say that it sounds his, not mine.

CARNABY. Our hopes of you were high once.

GEORGE. Sarah, may I kiss you? [_He kisses her cheek._] Let me hear what you decide to do.

CARNABY. The begetting you, sir, was a waste of time.

GEORGE. [_Quite pleasantly._] Don't say that.

_At the top of the steps_ ANN _is waiting for him_.

ANN. I'll see you into the saddle.

GEORGE. Thank you, sister Ann.

ANN. Why didn't you leave us weeks ago?

GEORGE. Why!

_They pace away, arm-in-arm._

CARNABY. [_Bitterly._] Glad to go! Brighton, Sarah.

SARAH. No, I shall not come, Papa.

CARNABY. Coward. [_Then to_ REMNANT.] Good-night.

DR. REMNANT. [_Covering the insolent dismissal._] With your kind permission I will take my leave. [_Then he bows to_ SARAH.] Lady Cottesham.

SARAH. [_Curtseying._] Doctor Remnant, I am yours.

CARNABY. [_Sitting by the fountain, stamping his foot._] Oh, this cracked earth! Will it rain . . will it rain?

DR. REMNANT. I doubt now. That cloud has pa.s.sed.

CARNABY. Soft, pellucid rain! There's a good word and I'm not at all sure what it means.

DR. REMNANT. Per . . lucere . . . letting light through.

REMNANT _leaves them_.

CARNABY. Soft, pellucid rain! . . thank you. Brighton, Sarah.

SARAH. Ann needs new clothes.

CARNABY. See to it.

SARAH. I shall not be there.

_She turns from him._

CARNABY. Pretty climax to a quarrel!

SARAH. Not a quarrel.

CARNABY. A political difference.

SARAH. Don't look so ferocious.

CARNABY. My arm is in great pain and the wine's in my head.

SARAH. Won't you go to bed?

CARNABY. I'm well enough . . to travel. This marriage makes us safe, Sarah . . an anchor in each camp . . There's a mixed metaphor.

SARAH. If you'll have my advice, Papa, you'll keep those plans clear from Ann's mind.

CARNABY. John Carp is so much clay . . a man of forty ignorant of himself.

SARAH. But if the Duke will not . .

CARNABY. The Duke hates a scandal.

SARAH. Does he detest scandal!

CARNABY. The girl is well-bred and harmless . . why publicly quarrel with John and incense her old brute of a father? There's the Duke in a score of words. He'll take a little time to think it out so.

SARAH. And I say: Do you get on the right side of the Duke once again,--that's what we've worked for--and leave these two alone.

CARNABY. Am I to lose my daughter?

SARAH. Papa . . your food's intrigue.

CARNABY. Scold at Society . . and what's the use?

SARAH. We're over-civilized.

ANN _rejoins them now. The twilight is gathering._

CARNABY. My mother's very old . . . your grandfather's younger and seventy-nine . . he swears I'll never come into the t.i.tle. There's little else.

SARAH. You're feverish . . why are you saying this?