Hargrave. Jack is not my son. He is only mine by adoption.
Jane. He told me that too, but he also told me about your brother. You met him this very morning in the Park.
Hargrave. I admit that. But till this very morning I believed my brother was dead, as dead as my own father is today. And now how does he show himself! As a man with whom one would care to associate? (With sudden inspiration.) No, as a thief, an unrepentant, petty thief; and Jack will tell you that also.
Jane (a little taken aback). How did you happen to call him Jack, Peter? I think John were infinitesimally nicer.
Hargrave. Jack would hardly have had a name at all if it hadn't been for me. He might have had nothing but a number.
Jane. A number?
Hargrave. Yes, a number! I found him the very morning after you sailed, Jane, a babe in arms, bound heart and soul to a School for Socialism.
Jane (eagerly). A School for Socialism! Where, Peter?
Hargrave (complacently). At Canterbury, under the direction of—
Jane (beside herself with excitement). Of a most eminent man, a charming gentleman by the name of—