Lord and Lady Francis.
Lord Francis Etchingham is a man of fifty, of the middle height, rather bald, with an amiable, weak face. He is a good-natured person, anxious to do his best in all things and to all people so long as he is not bored. He wants everything to go smoothly. He has a comfortable idea of his own capacity. Reduced circumstances have drawn him into affairs, and he regards himself as a fine man of business. Lady Francis is a handsome and well-preserved woman of the same age as her husband, with dyed red hair; she has a massive, almost an imposing, presence, and she is admirably gowned. She treats her husband with good-humoured scorn, aware of his foibles, but amused rather than annoyed by them. When the curtain rises Francis Etchingham is a prey to the liveliest vexation. He is walking nervously across the room, while his wife, with a thin smile, stands quietly watching him. With a gesture of irritation he flings himself into a chair.
Etchingham.
Why the dickens didn’t you tell me last night, Angela?
Lady Francis.
[Smiling.] I had no wish to disturb my night’s rest.
Etchingham.
Upon my soul, I don’t know what you mean. It’s incomprehensible to me that you should have slept like a top. I couldn’t have closed my eyes the whole night.
Lady Francis.
I know. And you would have taken excellent care that I shouldn’t close mine either.