Mrs. R. Haslam. Where are you going, father?
Mr. R. Haslam. I thought I'd just make sure about Charlie's supper, before it slipped my memory. (Exit back.)
Mrs. R. Haslam. (Turning to Flora again, pained.) You are forgetting the terrible scandal that will ensue if you persist in your present course, dear Flora. The honeymoon actually begun! and then—this bombshell! How shall we break it to the Bishop? How can I ever look the Bishop in the face again! How can I ever look anybody in the face again?... To-day of all days, when my new book has just come out! And with my article to finish, on the decline of the birthrate among the well-to-do classes!... How can we explain to people that the marriage is broken off when there's certain to be an account of the wedding in every paper to-morrow morning?
Flora. That, at any rate, isn't my fault. By-the-way, how did that paragraph get into the "Piccadilly Gazette"? (Mischievously.) I suppose it must have slipped in while you were looking the other way.
Mrs. R. Haslam. (With controlled acerbity.) When you begin to figure prominently in the life of your country, Flora, you'll understand, perhaps, a little better than you do now that newspaper reporters, whatever their sex, simply will not be denied. They reside on the doorstep. One cannot be rude. At least I can't.
Flora. I hope I never shall figure prominently in the life of my country. But I want to figure prominently in the life of my husband.
Mrs. R. Haslam. The newspapers——
Cedric. Excuse me, mater, but isn't this right off the point?
Mrs. R. Haslam. (To herself.) And I was looking forward to a quiet half hour with my press-cuttings!
(Silence.)