Mollen. (up to L. of table C. with a flourish) Within two days she has the boy at her feet! Then your bride becomes jealous. Your tyranny offends her—she begins to see you are old. Romance drops off like paper from a damp wall. Everard's coolness piqued her—she proceeds to discover that she loves Everard. You in dressing gown and slippers—he young Greek god. And, after a month's steady digging—we arrive—at—the real girl!
Sir J. A month....
Mollen. May be less, may be less! Finally, explanation—you discover her in tears—you play the noble Roman, release her unconditionally, Rosamund sends Everard to her—you join their hands. Slow music. Curtain. See?
Sir J. (rise and down R.) I don't like the idea of an engagement, even though it be secret. But look here—if I did this—how about Everard? What should I say to him?
Mollen. (to bottom of C. table) Let him believe—as he already believes—that you admire what's-her-name—but mention the month's probation. Hint darkly at possibility of happy ending. (to R. C. L. of Sir J.) Bring Everard down to Swanage—I answer for the rest!
Sir J. (hesitating) It sounds plausible—though it's a fearful undertaking! But, before deciding, I should like a word with Lady Claude. Will you allow me?
Mollen. Certainly, certainly. I'll smoke a cigarette down-stairs—my habit, before dressing. (cross up R.) You'll find habits useful by the way—I've one or two that I'll tell you. I'll see you before you go!
(He retires cheerfully humming a tune, R.)
Sir J. (to L. C.) Lady Claude, I've asked for this because—I scarcely know where I am, or what I'm saying! Your father rattles on—he seems convincing—he may be right—but my instinct tells me that, in this fearful muddle, you are the surer guide!
Lady C. I?