THEODORE. TRAVERS.
(Sitting.) Don't you? Oh, it's simple enough. My mother having accomplished the exceedingly satisfactory life's work of introducing me into the world, dies, poor lady. My father, feeling the sole responsibility of bringing up so extraordinary an infant as myself too much for him, marries a charming lady of whom I have always very much approved, a Miss Belinda Greggs, better known as Mdlle. Silvia, the beauteous and world-renowned skipping-rope artiste. This lady, upon the death of my father, marries your uncle. Thus Art becomes the golden link connecting the Morris to the Travers family. (About to drink from one of the glasses.) Gin?
TED MORRIS.
No; an experiment. I don't fancy you'd care for it. (Takes glasses away and puts them back in cupboard.) O yes, I recollect now. Mrs. Ben Dixon was a Mrs. Travers, of course. (Noticing that Theo is again writing on his cuff.) Your cuff is getting rather full, isn't it? Don't you carry a note-book?
THEODORE TRAVERS.
Yes, but you know some people object to it, so I generally make short memoranda on my cuff and copy them out afterwards.
TED MORRIS.
Very considerate of you, I'm sure. But don't you trouble about it in this case. If you can make anything out of us you go ahead. It's more than we can do ourselves.
THEODORE TRAVERS.
(Takes out note-book,) Well now, that's really very kind of you. I will. To tell you the truth, that's partly why I came here. I'm giving the medical students a turn in my next book, and I wanted to get material. (Writing.) Hard up, of course? (Ted nods.) Loud tie. (Sniffs.) Shag! (Turns to Jack.) Friend an artist? Also hard up? Coloured shirt!