Hargrave. I must confess that I am glad my brother has been found out. What did you say his social standing was?
Jack (using Venus as a mirror). A butler, father. The standing is on a par with petty theft.
Hargrave. A butler! A thief!
Jack. Yes, a menial, father, a form of man. It owes its origin to menus.
Hargrave (rubbing his hands). I haven't told you before, my boy, and an announcement of this kind should really proceed from the young lady in question, but I believe that I am engaged.
Jack. Of course, you are, father. I'm attending to that.
Hargrave. Then Kathryn has told you?
Jack. Kathryn? This is the last straw, father. (Pulls quill pen from hat.) You shall be unfrocked, sir. (Sits down at desk.) I'll write a brief to the Archbishop to that effect. (Does not write.) I had long seen the advisability of such action, and had you been my real father would have attended to it long ago. (Hargrave glares at him.) When would you be unfrocked, father? In the morning? I'll respect any preference you see fit to name. Well, some morning! Most any morning will do. Letters have to travel like other people. They would not be well read otherwise.
Hargrave (at other end of the desk). You shall go to jail, sir. (Writes furiously.) Or maybe there are many charitable organizations only too glad to take you off my hands.
Jack. That remark was cowardly, Mr. Kent. You know very well that I am not rich enough to go to jail, and that both influence and position are required today for a jail career. (Snatches pen away.) For the past fortnight a jail has been my prime ambition. I have a genius for jails, and I need not tell you, Mr. Kent, that I need rest and affection.