Kit. [Turning to Sydney] Well, I only wanted her to understand that I’m not responsible for my father—that he’s not my own choice, if you know what I mean. [They talk aside.]
Rector. His mother’s right hand! I don’t know what’s come over him.
Miss Fairfield. [Grimly] A pretty face, Rector!
Rector. Ah! the very point! I shall be glad to see you alone, Mrs. Fairfield—not you, of course, Miss Fairfield, but—er— [He glances at Kit and Sydney.]
Margaret. [Resignedly] Sydney, have you shown Kit all your presents?
Sydney. [Reluctantly taking the hint, but continuing the conversation as they go out] What did you let him come for? Oh, you’re no good! [The door bangs behind them.]
Margaret. [Half smiling] Well, Mr. Pumphrey, I suppose it’s about Sydney and Kit?
Rector. Mrs. Fairfield, until last night we encouraged, we were gratified—
Margaret. Last night? Oh, the dance!
Rector. I sat up for my son until three fifteen of Christmas morning. His excuse was your daughter—