Jean (gravely). Mr. Greatorex—he's a Radical, isn't he?
Lord J. (laughing). Jean! Beginning to "think in parties"!
Lady John. It's very natural now that she should——
Jean. I only meant it was odd he should be here. Naturally at my grandfather's——
Lord J. It's all right, my child. Of course we expect now that you'll begin to think like Geoffrey Stonor, and to feel like Geoffrey Stonor, and to talk like Geoffrey Stonor. And quite proper too.
Jean (smiling). Well, if I do think with my husband and feel with him—as, of course, I shall—it will surprise me if I ever find myself talking a tenth as well——
(Following her uncle to the French window.)
You should have heard him at Dutfield——(Stopping short, delighted.) Oh! The Freddy Tunbridges. What? Not Aunt Lydia! Oh-h!
(Looking back reproachfully at Lady John, who makes a discreet motion "I couldn't help it.")
(Enter the Tunbridges. Mr. Freddy, of no profession and of independent means. Well-groomed, pleasant-looking; of few words. A "nice man" who likes "nice women" and has married one of them. Mrs. Freddy is thirty. An attractive figure, delicate face, intelligent grey eyes, over-sensitive mouth, and naturally curling dust-coloured hair.)