Why, Ma, these tiptop families ought to feel jolly grateful that we’re mixing the breed for them a bit. Look at the two lads who’ve married Gwennie Harker and Maidie Trevail—Kinterton and Glenroy; and Fawcus—Sir George Fawcus—Eva Shafto’s husband; they haven’t a chin or a forehead between ’em, and their chests are as narrow as a ten-inch plank.
Mrs. Upjohn.
Quite true.
Roper.
Farncombe himself, he’s inclined to be weedy. I maintain it’s a grand thing for our English nobs that their slips of sons have taken to marrying young women of the stamp of Maidie Trevail and Gwennie Harker—or Lil; keen-witted young women full of the joy of life, with strong frames, beautiful hair and fine eyes, and healthy pink gums and big white teeth. Sneer at the Pandora girls! Great Scot, it’s my belief that the Pandora girls’ll be the salvation of the aristocracy in this country in the long run!
Captain Nicholas Jeyes lounges in. He is a man of about five-and-thirty, already slightly grey-haired, who has gone to seed. Roper sits in the chair in the middle of the room rather guiltily and Mrs. Upjohn puts on a propitiatory grin.
Jeyes.
Nodding to Mrs. Upjohn and Roper as he closes the door. Afternoon, Mrs. Upjohn. How’r’you, Roper?
Mrs. Upjohn.
Ah, Captain!