LORD JOHN. Why?

CARNABY. For the sake of appearances.

LORD JOHN. d.a.m.n all appearances.

CARNABY. Now I'll lose my temper. Sir, you have compromised my daughter.

LORD JOHN. Nonsense!

CARNABY. Villain! What's your next move?

_For a moment_ LORD JOHN _sits with knit brows_.

LORD JOHN. [_Brutally._] Mr. Leete, your name stinks.

CARNABY. My point of dis-ad-vantage!

LORD JOHN. [_Apologising._] Please say what you like. I might have put my remark better.

CARNABY. I think not; the homely Saxon phrase is our literary dagger.

Princelike, you ride away from Markswayde. Can I trust you not to stab a socially sick man? Why it's a duty you owe to society . . . to weed out . . . us.

LORD JOHN. I'm not a coward. How?

CARNABY. A little laughter . . . in your exuberance of health.

LORD JOHN. You may trust me not to tell tales.

CARNABY. Of what . . . of whom?

LORD JOHN. Of here.

CARNABY. And what is there to tell of here?

LORD JOHN. Nothing.

CARNABY. But how your promise betrays a capacity for good-natured invention!

LORD JOHN. If I lie call me out.

CARNABY. I don't deal in sentiment. I can't afford to be talked about otherwise than as I choose to be. Already the Aunt Sally of the hour; having under pressure of circ.u.mstances resigned my office; dating my letters from the borders of the Chiltern Hundreds . . . I am a poor politician, sir, and I must live.

LORD JOHN. I can't see that your family's infected . . . affected.

CARNABY. With a penniless girl you really should have been more circ.u.mspect.

LORD JOHN. I might ask to marry her.

CARNABY. My lord!

_In the pause that ensues he takes up the twist of ba.s.s to play with._

LORD JOHN. What should you say to that?

CARNABY. The silly child supposed she loved you.

LORD JOHN. Yes.

CARNABY. Is it a match?

LORD JOHN. [_Full in the other's face._] What about the appearances of black-mail?

CARNABY. [_Compressing his thin lips._] Do you care for my daughter?

LORD JOHN. I could . . . at a pinch.

CARNABY. Now, my lord, you are insolent.

LORD JOHN. Is this when we quarrel?

CARNABY. I think I'll challenge you.

LORD JOHN. That will look well.

CARNABY. You'll value that kiss when you've paid for it. Kindly choose Tatton as your second. I want his tongue to wag both ways.

LORD JOHN. I was forgetting how it all began.

CARNABY. George will serve me . . . protesting. His principles are vile, but he has the education of a gentleman. Swords or . . . ? Swords. And at noon shall we say? There's shade behind a certain barn, midway between this and Tatton's.

LORD JOHN. [_Not taking him seriously yet._] What if we both die horridly?

CARNABY. You are at liberty to make me a written apology.

LORD JOHN. A joke's a joke.

CARNABY _deliberately strikes him in the face with the twist of ba.s.s_.

LORD JOHN. That's enough.

CARNABY. [_In explanatory apology._] My friend, you are so obtuse. Abud!

LORD JOHN. Mr. Leete, are you serious?

CARNABY. Perfectly serious. Let's go to bed. Abud, you can get to your work.

_Wig in hand_, MR. LEETE _courteously conducts his guest towards the house_. ABUD _returns to his tools and his morning's work_.