HUNTINGDON. Can't you try to see George's side of it a bit?
CLARE. I do. Oh! don't let's talk about it.
HUNTINGDON. Well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go sailing near the wind, will you? I mean, there are fellows always on the lookout.
CLARE. "That chap, Malise, you'd better avoid him!" Why?
HUNTINGDON. Well! I don't know him. He may be all right, but he's not our sort. And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New Woman and that kind of thing—haven't been brought up to it.
CLARE. British home-made summer goods, light and attractive—don't wear long. [At the sound of voices in the hall] They seem 'to be going, Reggie.
[HUNTINGDON looks at her, vexed, unhappy.]
HUNTINGDON. Don't head for trouble, old girl. Take a pull. Bless you! Good-night.
CLARE kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door, holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of emotion. Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table, leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite calm. GEORGE is coming in. PAYNTER follows him.
CLARE. Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter. You can go home, and the maids can go to bed.