SARAH. And return them? You have almost the right to make such a suggestion.

LORD ARTHUR. Stick to your father. He'll care for you?

SARAH. No . . we all pride ourselves on our lack of sentiment.

LORD ARTHUR. You must take money from your husband.

SARAH. I have earned that and spent it.

LORD ARTHUR. [_Yielding once again to temptation._] I'm devilish fond of you . . .

_At that moment_ ABUD _comes out of the dining-room. He is dressed in his best._ SARAH _responds readily to the interruption_.

SARAH. And you must give my kindest compliments to Lady Arthur and my . .

affectionately . . to the children and I'll let Papa know that you're going.

LORD ARTHUR. Letters under cover to your father?

SARAH. Papa will stay in town through the session of course . . but they all tell me that seventy-five pounds a year is a comfortable income in . .

Timbuctoo.

_She goes into the dining-room._ ABUD _has selected his boots from the corner and now stands with them in his hand looking rather helpless.

After a moment_--

LORD ARTHUR. I congratulate you, Mr. Abud.

ABUD. My lord . . I can't speak of myself.

CARNABY _comes out of the dining-room. He is evidently by no means recovered from his illness. He stands for a moment with an ironical eye on_ JOHN ABUD.

CARNABY. Son-in-law.

ABUD. I'm told to get on my boots, sir.

CARNABY. Allow me to a.s.sist you?

ABUD. I couldn't, sir.

CARNABY. Desole!

_Then he pa.s.ses on._ ABUD _sits on the sofa, furtively puts on his boots and afterwards puts his shoes in his pockets_.

LORD ARTHUR. You were so busy drinking health to the two fat farmers that I wouldn't interrupt you.

CARNABY. Good-bye. Describe all this to your brother John.

LORD ARTHUR. So confirmed a bachelor!

CARNABY. Please say that we missed him.

LORD ARTHUR _hands him the newspaper_.

LORD ARTHUR. I've out-raced your _Chronicle_ from London by some hours.

There's a paragraph . . second column . . near the bottom.

CARNABY. [_Looking at it blindly._] They print villainously now-a-days.

LORD ARTHUR. Inspired.

CARNABY. I trust his grace is well?

LORD ARTHUR. Gouty.

CARNABY. Now doesn't the social aspect of this case interest you?

LORD ARTHUR. I object to feeding with the lower cla.s.ses.

CARNABY. There's pride! How useful to note their simple manners! From the meeting of extremes new ideas spring . . new life.

LORD ARTHUR. Take that for a new social-political creed, Mr. Leete.

CARNABY. Do I lack one?

LORD ARTHUR. Please make my adieux to the bride.

CARNABY. Appropriate . . . 'a Dieu' . . she enters Nature's cloister. My epigram.

LORD ARTHUR. But . . good heavens . . are we to choose to be toiling animals?

CARNABY. To be such is my daughter's ambition.

LORD ARTHUR. You have not read that.

CARNABY. [_Giving back the paper, vexedly._] I can't see.

LORD ARTHUR. "The Right Honourable Carnaby Leete is, we are glad to hear, completely recovered and will return to town for the opening of Session."

CARNABY. I mentioned it.

LORD ARTHUR. "We understand that although there has been no reconciliation with the Government it is quite untrue that this gentleman will in any way resume his connection with the Opposition."

CARNABY. Inspired?

LORD ARTHUR. I am here from my father to answer any questions.

CARNABY. [_With some dignity and the touch of a threat._] Not now, my lord.

DIMMUCK _comes in at the front door_.