Brooke Twombley.
[Heard speaking outside.] My dear Valentine, why shouldn’t you come in—what?
[Mrs. Gaylustre creeps round in front of the table and disappears with the letter in her hand as Brooke enters, dragging in Valentine White, a roughly-dressed, handsome young fellow of about six-and-twenty, bronzed and bearded.]
Valentine White.
Now, Brooke, you know I cut away from England years ago because I couldn’t endure ceremony of any kind.
Brooke Twombley.
I’m not treating you with ceremony—what!
Valentine White.
[Looking about him.] Phew! the atmosphere’s charged with it. That fellow with his hair powdered nearly sent me running down the street like a mad dog.
Brooke Twombley.