Fred, (giving way). Well, I do like to be generous. It's the only thing that keeps my blood at normal temperature——
Peter (off right, at telephone). I shall shout. You may be the whip, but you'll not whip me. Important division? I know that as well as you do. No, I shan't be there. Promised? Of course I promised. I started to come. How did I know I was going to be indisposed in the Strand?
Fred, (whistling). Whew! I wouldn't mind betting you're the indisposition, Gladys.
Peter (off). Yes. I'm far too ill to turn out. What? No, I'm not too ill to shout. Good night. (Opens door and enters without his hat and overcoat.) Oh, do sit down, Miss Mottram. So sorry I'd to leave you. (Pulls left armchair before fire and pokes it.) I'll make the fire up. It's a cold night. (Gladys sits.)
Fred. Comfortable enough in here, Garside. You've snug quarters.
Peter (failing to conceal his pride in his room). It's a beginning. (Rising from fire.) One moment. (Goes off left quickly, and is heard as he exits, saying:) Mother, you let that fire go low.
Mrs. G. (off left). I thought you'd gone out.
Fred. Oh, if he's got a mother on the premises that alters the case. I don't mind your staying now.
[Peter re-enters with Mrs. Garside in a neat black dress, spectacles on, and a "Daily Telegraph" in her hand. Mrs. Garside, though sharing Peter's prosperity, has now an habitually worried look and is vaguely pathetic. She enters embarrassed.
Peter (off-handedly, treating his mother without ceremony). Mr. Mottram, Miss Mottram—my mother.