Jack. I'm tired of all this moving around, Jane. I haven't sat down for five minutes.
Jane. Well, just to the door. (They go out. Dill seats himself comfortably in the big chair.)
Dill. Charming little artificial nook here. Shaw says—
Hargrave. Do not jest about artificial things, sir. Browne avers that all things are artificial, nature being only the art of God.
Dill. Browne! Browne! No relation to Browning, sir? Pardon me. Of course; Browning's the diminutive, Browne naturally the father.
Hargrave. Of no relationship whatever. I had reference to Sir Thomas Browne.
Dill. Ah! A man with a title. One of God's favorites, sir, and possibly some relation of my own. (Enter Kathryn. She is very much out of breath and holds an open letter in her hand.)
Kathryn (between gasps). Of course, I always knew I had a father. Every young girl has, and it would be considered most unnatural not to. (She is shielded by the angle of the room from Dill.) And I always knew he was a horrid, horrid, man, too. Aunt Gloria confessed that. (Dill, hearing Kathryn's voice, has risen.) But at least I thought he was a gentleman (Dill takes a step toward her), and I never, never dreamed it could be Dill. (They come face to face.) Oh! (Turns away.)
Hargrave (turning threateningly). What is your social standing, Dill, I forget?
Dill (abashed and discomforted). A butler, sir.