A fierce sunlight streams down upon the velarium, and through the green blinds, in the conservatory.
[Note: Throughout, “right” and “left” are the spectators’ right and left, not the actor’s.]
Lord Farncombe, his gloves in his hand, is seated in the arm-chair in the middle of the room. He is a simple-mannered, immaculately dressed young man in his early twenties, his bearing and appearance suggesting the soldier. He rises expectantly as Gladys, a flashy parlourmaid in a uniform, shows in Lionel Roper, a middle-aged individual of the type of the second-class City man.
Roper.
To Farncombe. Hul-lo! I’m in luck! Just the chap I’m hunting for. Shaking hands with Farncombe. How d’ye do, Lord Farncombe?
Farncombe.
How are you, Roper?
Gladys.
To Roper, languidly. I’ll tell Mrs. Upjohn you’re here.
Roper.