JOHN. Now, I look at things practically. When Hilda'd spent all her dress allowance and got into debt besides, about a year and a half ago, she suddenly remembered she wasn't doing much to help the war, and so she went into the Food Ministry as a typist at thirty-five shillings a week. Next she learnt typing. Then she became an authority on everything. And now she's concocting these food articles for you. Believe me, the girl knows nothing whatever about cookery. She couldn't fry a sausage for nuts. Once the mater insisted on her doing the housekeeping—in the holidays, too! Stay me with flagons!
HILDEGARDE ( without looking round ). Stay you with chocolates, you mean, Johnnie, dear.
JOHN. There you are! Her thoughts fly instantly to chocolates—and in the fourth year of the greatest war that the world—
HILDEGARDE. Etcetera, etcetera.
TRANTO. Then do I gather that you don't entirely approve of your sister's articles?
JOHN. Tripe, I think. My fag could write better. I'll tell you what I do approve of. I approve of that article to-day by that chap Sampson Straight about titles and the shameful traffic in honours, and the rot of the hereditary principle, and all that sort of thing.
TRANTO. I'm glad. Delivers the goods, doesn't he, Mr. Sampson Straight?
JOHN. Well, I think so. Who is he?
TRANTO. One of my discoveries, John. He sent me in an article about—let me see, when was it?—about eight months ago. I at once perceived that in Mr. Sampson Straight I had got on to a bit of all right. And I was not mistaken. He has given London beans pretty regularly once a week ever since.
JOHN. He must have given the War Cabinet neuralgia this afternoon, anyhow. I should like to meet him.